


The Toymaker's Wife

by Faith_Hope_Love



Category: Nutcracker: The Motion Picture (1986), Nußknacker und Mausekönig | Nutcracker and the Mouse King - E. T. A. Hoffmann
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Flirting, Forbidden Love, Historical, Love Letters, Marriage Proposal, Older Man/Younger Woman, Romance, Romantic Soulmates, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-04-14 16:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 44,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14139738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faith_Hope_Love/pseuds/Faith_Hope_Love
Summary: In a retelling of E.T.A. Hoffman's classic fairy tale, Klara Staulbaum's relationship with her quirky, mysterious Godfather Herr Drosselmeyer is brought into a very different perspective. In this version, Klara is not a child, but a beautiful, intelligent teenager when she receives the fatal gift of the nutcracker on Christmas Eve in 1879. No longer the enigma that he is so often portrayed as, Drosselmeyer is a kind, nurturing yet awkward man who has a deep connection with his Goddaughter whom he cherishes. Their close bond blossoms into something far deeper as the years pass. But will her Godfather's dark past - and her parents' unwillingness to tell her the truth - obliterate any chance of future happiness? Indeed, will *he* stand in the way himself?





	1. A Very Different Kind of Christmas Present (December 26th, 1884)

**Author's Note:**

> This past winter, I was inspired to write "The Toymaker's Wife" after rediscovering the 1986 feature film of The Nutcracker, starring Pacific Northwest Ballet dancer Hugh Bigney as Drosselmeyer and Vanessa Sharp as Klara. I know other women must feel as I do, but I gotta say that Bigney's character was dreamy beyond words and you can't help but fall in love with him! I wanted to create an unusual but loving human being; a love story that's real and romantic, yet far beyond something frivolous. I also hope no one out there will totally hate on it, lol. ;-) Enjoy!

“Are you sure this is what you want, Klarissa?”

There was no immediate response. The lovely young woman of 21, on the cusp of life and love, simply stared down at the floor – studying the willowy patterns of the Persian rug that, if she followed the patterns with her eyes long enough, made her think of nothing and yet everything. The patterns brought to mind memories – and dreams. But mostly dreams. Shared memories of love stories, fantastical tales and far-away places. Some she treasured so achingly in the crevices and chambers of her heart that it hurt.

Abashed, really, that her mother would even ask such a question.

The decision had practically been made. A ghastly large, brilliant, unique gem on her left hand; that is, red glass shaped into a ruby. Not expensive, mind, but Klara knew the significance of this. He crafted it himself…and it’s all he could afford. One of the many little acts of forgiveness she had blessed upon him. It caught the 2 o’clock white bright wintery sunlight streaming in from the upstairs window, that quality of light when the sun is shining full force in a pastel perfect blue sky and everything else is white with snow. One can barely see for the glare of the brightness, like the blinding white light of angel tidings on that Christmas night. Except this was the day after Christmas 1884, in a small river town called Lenzen. This was the usual hour for writing letters; the hour for sewing; the hour for paying calls in the immediate neighborhood on any given day – but there was no hope of that coming into today’s program of activities. Not with this rising emergency in the Staulbaum household.  
Her mother, usually always one to offer a ready smile, chortle or maternal glance of approval at her daughter’s dreamy antics now bore a grave, strange expression that Klara had never seen before. It looked akin to shock, a rising terror that had now subsided into some kind of invisible collapse somewhere inside her mother’s mind. It was if she were about to weep at any moment, but was keeping it from happening by leaning forward, rounding her shoulders to suppress…something. She was too anxious to express it (and far too embarrassed to look her mother in the eye), but Klara was far more concerned for her mother’s emotional state than she was for her own.

“Klara…” – her mother’s voice trailed off in a tremor. The girl was right. She was about to weep. Best to speak up now.

“Yes.” She looked up. Despite the ebb and flow tide of throbbing rapturous joy that had traveled through her nerves just last night when all of this transpired, she couldn’t bring herself to smile just now. Too many nerves; too much anxiety. But here we go, she thought, let’s put this in place:

“Yes, of course this is what I want. I don’t see what’s wrong, Maman.”  
Her mother raised her hand to her mouth and made some noise as if she were choking or retching.

When she finally caught her breath: “How can you fail to see what’s wrong!”

Confusion. “I…I love him and – “

“Herr Drosselmeyer is your Godfather! For God’s sake, Klara, what kind of scandal do you want to plunge this family into? He’s already had all this damn city’s tongues wagging from his visits and I’ve been humiliated by it all – the way he stares at you – the gifts – gifts made for children. That’s queer. That man is like a grown-up child. You’re not a child anymore, Klara, but you act like one. Little wonder you take to him so. And here he is still bringing you those ridiculous, hideous toys. Take that one Christmas – what, five years ago and that doll with the…the…jaw that broke.” She made a motion around her own jawline, wincing at the memory of its image, apparently.

“It was a Nutcracker, Mam-.”

“It was a DOLL! A TOY! You were sixteen! Dear God, Klara, he’s only a few years younger than your father! You were on my knee when your Godfather was at University in Wittenberg.”

“There, you know he has an excellent education – “

“DON’T INTERRUPT ME!” No mistaking it now – perhaps Klara shouldn’t have shown her the ring so soon after all.

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into now, Klarissa. A man dancing with you and making toothy smiles and hovering over you is expected at your age – but not by a man twenty years older than you and practically family at that. Besides, what in God’s Name do you see in him? He – “

She stopped. A look of utter disgust flittered across her mother’s face, then she checked it. A deep breath.

“He’s…” (an unusual pause) “…there’s something wrong with him.”

“No,” Klara said, “He’s different.”

A dark, short laugh. Now a look of complete incredulity. “Different!? He’s not normal, Klara. Good God, can’t you see? He’s so awkward, despite his…his…gallantries towards you.”

Klara’s body warmed at these words; not in anger at her mother’s misunderstanding, but in contemplating the memory of her first dance with her Godfather. That moment – when her brother Fritz did not keep his promise for the first dance at her parent’s Christmas Eve ball. She didn’t give one fig for her young brother (he had always been her personal tormentor) but it was the principle of the thing. Standing there alone, as the dance was about to begin, it was the most humiliating moment a girl her age could have imagined. Within seconds, before anyone had the chance to step in and rescue her, her Godfather threw all convention out of the window walking up to her like that, putting his hand out to her. She didn’t even see him behind her. She was so stunned that she found herself too fearful to look at him in the eye – but that happened often enough when she was a child. An eye bluer than the Elbe, bluer than blue. A lake to dive into and never surface. Half of Lenzen was scowling and peering over their fans and gloves at the Staulbaum family that night and into the next because of that upward palm held out to her with such delicacy and even trembling hesitation. All eyes were on them in her parents’ parlor that night.

“You’re obsessed with books.”

Right on cue, as if her mother knew she had to slash through her reverie in some way to get the girl’s attention.

“You and your books, girl…he’s not one of your knights or cavaliers or Hussars in your damned stories you share with him – he lives in rooms above a toy shop. He seems to make the most of his living at Christmastime. And what of the rest of the year? He’s obsessed with carving those toys and creating those blasted noisy, mechanical riffraff in the same way the way you’re always reading. He’s never been married and he’s over 40. Do you ever ask yourself why? Seriously, do you?”

“Well,” said Klara, “He’s marrying someone now,” and shot a look of what she thought was steely defiance at her mother, but in fact it probably appeared quite the opposite.

Her mother was deadly solemn and grave now. “He’s missing an eye – “

“I KNOW he’s missing an eye. I’ve told you. The childhood accident…”

Her mother’s expression now melted into vexed disdain into a knowing smirk with a deep shock or sadness hidden behind it.

“Oh…is that what he told you? Childhood accident…childhood accident…” Her mother began tracing the pattern on the rug herself with her own eyes. Her mouth twisted into a small ball; those rounded shoulders again that seemed beaten and yet valiant against this whole new concept of marriage for her only daughter. Despite really loving her dearest mother more than anyone – perhaps more, if not just as much, than her newly-established fiancé – she began to see her future relationship with her mother clearly. Frau Staulbaum would never understand this relationship. Never.

This was too much. This needed to be cleared away. And now.

“Alright,” said Klara. “How did he lose his eye, since you seem to know so much more about my future husband than I?”

Her mother looked up at her wearily. “Oh yes. Your father and I know things about your Godfather. Plenty.” Her voice lowered. But why? They were the only ones in the room.

“That degree, for instance, that he got at Wittenberg was wasted,” she continued. “He never held down a proper position anywhere. For long, at least. Not once, Klara.”

“What do you mean, Maman, what does this have to do with his eye?”

A blank, cold stare. She blinked and shifted her demeanor into a kind of business-mode. “I mean that he was constantly sacked.” Still no explanation. There wasn’t going to be one and she saw that her mother was changing the subject. “Richard, your father’s friend – he knew your Godfather at Wittenberg and after. They studied together. Richard said he could never keep to any task, constantly leaving his work, just walking away. But studied like mad…enough academic honors and laurels to start his own business in Berlin. Or anywhere. A promising engineering career. He was getting started in the railway business, when he just walked away. Why do you think your Godfather runs his own blessed toy shop? He can’t bear being told what to do.”

“Pieter tells me he enjoys being alone. He doesn’t like working with other people.”

“And is that what he’s going to tell you when you need him when the baby is sick and there’s not enough blasted wood to keep the stove going and you have to work some farm around here just to put food in your stomach? To stay alive? My Klara, a lawyer’s daughter, working a farm! What, are you going to burn his childish wooden toys and music boxes to keep warm? Him, a father! God help us..."

“Ach,” Klara threw an annoyed glare right back. “So is that what you think, Maman? That’s why you reject his proposal to me? You think he’s poor? He does well for himself, you know this.”

“Yes – for himself.”

“And where are you and Papi in all of this, even if I did need help?”

Her mother stood up abruptly.

“No, you will not challenge me this way. Not after everything your father and I have done to keep your reputation from being damaged inextricably by that madman.”

Klara’s mouth fell open – her incredulity was not at her mother’s turn of phrase, but that her mother would honestly feel this way about a man she thought was beloved by both her parents. Their associations, Klara knew, went back several years before Klara ever came into existence.

“Madman?!? You – “

Her mother’s hand went up. “Stop, Klara Marie. Enough. You’ll know – by God, you’ll know soon enough what he is. Your father has worked miracles around this town, ensuring that Herr Drosselmeyer’s business keeps running and not shut down for some crime your Godfather isn’t probably even aware of committing…God help him, the ignorant fool.”

“Papi doesn’t seem to mind!” Klara half-screamed, thinking maybe raised emotion would put a stop to this back and forth and insulting once and for all. She felt the hairline fractures in her dreams beginning to form in her own confidence because of words and she wasn’t going to let “crime” and “ignorance” color her future. She wanted to bury them as quickly as possible with her own words of reality. “He’s already talked to Papi so why did you even come to challenge me about this now? Papi gave his blessing!”

Her mother sighed deeply.

“Your father just…understands him.”

“And you don’t?”

“But that doesn’t mean he’s not concerned.”

Klara shook her head. “But what? Concerned with what? Yes, Pieter has poor…social graces, I suppose; yes, he’s not used to crowds or talking ridiculous chit chat like everyone else. I know his hair is a little unruly but he just forgets to brush it back sometimes.”

“’Just forgets’! He’s always forgetting…his excuses…” her mother murmured.

Klara, grasping for pros, not cons: “Yes. But one thing he never forgets – is me. I know he’s older, I know he’s strange in his ways, but he’s a part of us, part of this family, Maman. I know he is quite strange, but…I mean…he even taught me my first prayers when I was still too young for my feet to hit the ground in the pew.” She saw her mother’s face shift with these last words but it was nearly imperceptible. “And you yourself have remarked on his face and his figure, even. He’s always been striking, and he still is. He’s not some old, wrinkly man.”

This couldn’t be denied. It often made Klara chuckle to herself that the one man in Letzen who had something of a ladies-man reputation for his appearance was so awkward and clumsy around them. He was certainly intrigued by women, smitten in some kind of curious way, yet he was too lost in his own thoughts to actually notice them. She had watched him at dinners, balls, teas, in church throughout the years. A woman would try to catch his eye and make visual contact, but he would look right through her or never see the woman at all. When she was a child, she had observed some of her mother’s friends flirting (for lack of a better phrase) with her Godfather, but they never seemed to get very far – at least, to her untrained eyes. Once, she spied an elegant, beautiful, animated blonde walk right up to him at a gathering her parents were hosting. Klara was sitting far off, so she couldn’t hear was being said, but she watched. She remembered the lady looking right at him, square in the face and saying something cheery and cordial. He just stood staring at her, befuddled, a half-open smile on his angular, boyish face. Klara soon realized he had no idea what to say to her or how to respond. His gaze lowered to the floor and stayed there. The woman’s own smile grew faint; she nodded vaguely and sauntered away again with her head down, blushing at her own mistake. He’s simply too shy, Klara thought. Well, he noticed _her_ nowadays at least. Noticed too much, is what her mother once said.

“A long nose, cobalt eyes and long legs do not pay one’s grocery bills, Klarissa. And that voluminous frock coat of his hides his sparseness. He’s too thin.”

More breaking of reveries. Her mother knew her too well.

Klara: “And yes yes yes I know he doesn’t earn a great living like Papi – let me explain how we intend – “

“He doesn’t own a carriage – “

“Well, he likes walking.”

“And do you?”

Before she could answer, a knock at the door.

It was the maid, begging urgent interruption in whispers, holding what looked like a letter. Once her mother caught sight of the handwriting on the front of the envelope, she made haste.

“Wait here. I’m not through speaking to you just yet,” said Maman. And out she went.


	2. Ruminations

Klara did not like being left alone to think about the wrong she had done.

But this was the equivalent of a punishment, for a 21-year-old at least. Still young, but not young enough to be told to stand in the corner and ruminate on one’s mistakes and being shunned from a second helping of sugar plums. Being left alone like this, however, after such heated conversing, felt akin to being like a scolded child again.

It wasn’t that Klara could not comprehend the absurdity of her situation. She saw quite clearly how the news of such an unorthodox marriage would create difficulties for her parents, for their reputation in their little city of Lenzen, for everything, really. No one marries one’s own Godfather and Klara’s determination to set the usual hierarchy of human nature upside down would send any set of Mamans and Papis of Germany into hysterics. Her Godfather was indeed strange, eccentric – yes, he made his living carving toys and setting clocks above his shop, painting and crafting; molding and conjuring until the wee hours of the night. He had always been fascinated by clocks and anything with gears, shifts and cogs; a “genius” is what her parents’ friends called him; everyone did. And it made her prouder than she could say to hear him praised so, now that she was of an age to understand exactly the social worth and achievement of a genius. It was, in fact, one of his particular qualities that made her love him so much. But there was ever so much more than that.

It was said by the more nocturnal townsfolk that his candle in the small window above his shop burned until 3 in the morning – sometimes later.  He was older than she, but not in his face or body, really. He was surprisingly youthful for being over 35, which was a positively ancient age in the minds of most of her female acquaintances. But in truth, most of her friends thought him a peculiar court jester who, when he could be coaxed away from his work, was an endless source of humor for everyone present. At other times, he an alien creature no one had yet encountered or simply a backwards toy salesman from the north. Most opinions centered on the second description.

_“Is he quite alright?” asked her friend Elsie in hushed tones one late summer day last year as they sat in her parents’ garden after an impromptu visit from Herr Drosselmeyer._

_“What do you mean, ‘alright’?” asked Klara. The roots of loyalty that wrapped tightly around her heart were still young and with loyalty came blindness._

_Elsie flicked a wary glance, first at her and then at the street where his slight figure was rapidly dwindling in the distance as he walked back to his shop._

_“It’s just…well, he scares me a bit. He’s so odd. He never looked me in the eye when he shook hands with me – not once. He acts so nervous. Did you see how he sat his teacup on the grass like that!? That’s so…peculiar.” This seemed to be most offensive of social faux pas the young woman could have witnessed. “And he laughs so loudly! I know he makes you_ _laugh, Klara, but…”_

_Klara only spoke what she thought but could not explain what others would or could not understand. She only said, with a shrug and the straightest of faces, “He’s my friend.”_

He did laugh loudly and often at his own jokes and stories. But Klara laughed with him and he had many to tell. She grew up listening to his riddles and tales of kings and queens of distant universes. They became like secrets between them, each of them reminding the other of some inside piece of knowledge with a smile, a wink, a nudge, a playful touch that became more and more tender as she aged.

But it was his behavior, like that of a silly little boy or mischievous child, that often set her ill at ease. Children have little control of their emotions or reactions to the world around them. This could have described her Godfather. He was the gentlest of men in his expressions, manners and words, especially towards Klara, but she had to readily admit to herself that there were facets of his personality that she simply did not understand, nor could handle on her own. What Elsie had seen that day was noticed by everyone: he did not make a great deal of eye contact with adults. Children were different - Klara, in her youth, especially. Their eyes met frequently and often.

In fact, he lingered reluctantly in the company of adults but seemed to enjoy children and younger people far more, which instigated more than a few libelous comments in town. Usually, he simply wanted to be left alone, working in his rooms above the shop, safe from intrusion – and was easily offended. Klara shuddered remembering how many times the wrong look, action or misconstrued word had created such havoc between them. Like that Christmas when she was 16…

But she wouldn’t ruminate on that now. That was the past and the hypnotic, incomprehensible events of that night, however delicious the fruit they bore years later, were to stay in past. Or would they?

The fractures in the bones of her hopes and joys that her mother had unwittingly carved were beginning to nudge ideas into her head. Perhaps Maman was right: how could she, a sheltered girl, a lawyer’s daughter, step into the role of wife for a man so extraordinary? A man who often scared her when she took a misstep – but then, again, that was when she was a girl. Things were different now. He was a man who would be aged into the winter of his own life before she barely reached the autumn of her own – and, she admitted with a sigh, he did _not_ earn enough to keep a carriage. A man whose past she really knew so little about. A man who was always smiling, always joyful, never seeing the problems in everyday life that any normal man could see in plain sight. And yet, held fast by sad thoughts that sometimes seemed all the sadder the more he looked at Klara. All he supposedly lived for now were two things: his toy shop and the sight and company of his newly-christened fiancé. His chief acquaintances were her parents and regular visitors to his shop on Hilgermannstrasse. Even his previous experience with matters of the heart were something of a mystery to her. There had been no past sweethearts that she knew of, save for one brief mention of a broken heart as a university student.

_“She…she didn’t…she didn’t end up…uh...didn’t end up…loving me. In the end.” This was four weeks ago. She had prompted this discussion by teasing him, comparing one of his elegant doll-women on the shelf of his workshop to a haughty but striking woman that often came into shop to buy toys for her own children. For all his teasing of Klara and his opinions of the general public, he did not like being teased in return. His speech became halting, like a drop of water that flows and then stops and then flows again down a window pane on a day with too much rain; his blue eye downcast looking over that large nose of his._

_Klara: “Did you remain friends?”_

_Pieter: “Oh…oh!...uh…no. No. She had. Found…someone else.”_

_And then he turned away in his usual unsure manner, his straight, inverted-triangle of a back floating away from her and that shock of white on his head - that antiquated wig he wore that was last in fashion 100 years ago. At first, it had been something of a joke at a costume party her parents threw for Fritz’s birthday. He had arrived as King Louis XVI – complete with jabot, a peach-colored coat, and blue and white striped stockings. Quite theatrical. Now, he wore the wig habitually as a kind of night cap or head warmer and it was oddly out of place with his modern-day garments. It was ridiculous. In fact, now that Klara thought about it, it was almost alarming, how weird it looked. It wasn’t until somewhat later that the realization came to her that he wore the wig because warmth was scarce in his rooms – even heat can cost money._

_He picked up his carving tools and some block of oak he had been scraping into a marionette. It was nearly finished. Smiling, he turned quickly back to her._

_“This is good, eh? I thought you might want to use it sometime. We could put on a puppet show, you and I. For your parents and Fritz. Or. The next festival in town, maybe…”_

She kept repeating it to herself and the more she did, the more real it was. Perhaps, in the end, her mother was right. Her fear was rising rapidly as the minutes progressed in her mother’s absence.

 _I mean…can I really live with a man who wears a wig on his head like that? It’s one thing to see it now and again. But will he wear it every day?_ His own hair was cut in the usual fashion for modern men, but he still wore it slightly longer than usual.

He _was_ a child inside a man’s body. And he would never grow up. Maybe he did see Klara as the child she had been, not the young woman she now was. But for all her fears, it did not blot out the goodness to be found in him or her own happiness.

Because he may have been forgetful about himself or appointments or where he placed something (he was forever losing things), but he never once forgot Klara’s birthday, or indeed any holiday they celebrated together, bearing always one singular, exquisitely-crafted gift set aside only for her. He also rarely forgot their own appointments together – to walk, to discuss the week’s events, or her frequent visits to his shop for help with some arithmetic in her studies when she was younger or, like now, simply to talk about their neighbors, what he was working on. Anytime he was late or forgot something entirely, it was all down to his watch. It embarrassed her, but his own gold watch he carried with him never worked or was always breaking and for a clock maker, this was incomprehensible. Not surprisingly, it became something of a running joke in the Staulbaum household and in Lenzen. A workroom full of the never-ending clicking and ticking of 20+ clocks in one room. Yet, the man’s personal watch was always breaking, and he would bother to fix it sporadically. It was one of the reasons, so he said, that he was always late.

But none of that mattered to her.

Her Godfather’s joy for life and his enthusiasm is what drew Klara into his confidence. So full of life. His tenderness for her, his innocence and kindness. It was true that his clothing and hair was a bit awry more often than not and that his life was a constant mystery to so many around him.  

But aside from all of these waking-life problems, Klara could see clearly what lay beneath She knew what her parents did not, as she had told no one of what she had discovered about her Godfather that Christmas Eve and the hidden life the two of them shared, nor of the support and strength he lent her in the smallest of ways and she did not soon forget them.

“One needn’t be pretty to be a dreamer,” he once told her, after she had burst into pubescent tears at the sight of her blemished face in the mirror. “Käse-Gesicht!” her brother had shouted at her, only producing more tears. Her Godfather gingerly took her hand before cautiously caressing her thumb with his own. “But that will never be a worry for you, Klara. Not…not _you_.” She could only perceive his one eye, but she could have sworn she saw the other, or what was once there, beneath his black patch, piercing her own. He was looking at her in the most peculiar way, as if looking through her and taking her in all at once. It had really not registered with her at the time, but years later his meaning became apparent.

She always sensed things about her Godfather that were not tangibly visible. _This_ was the key to the mystery she thought could not be solved.

There were so many, many mysteries about her Godfather that she could not unravel. But if there was anything that she did know, without a doubt about him, it was a simple truth: that Klara and her Godfather did not require live talking to communicate frankly with one another, despite their art at conversation which had been honed through the years of their friendship – and it had been a deep, deep friendship.

No. Klara and her Godfather spoke to one another in their dreams – when, for lack of knowledge of themselves or each other, the unconscious world was the only realm they knew how to traverse.

And it began on Christmas Eve when she was a girl of 16.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and on to Chapter 3! This is when it all gets good. ;) Will post very soon!


	3. December 24th, 1879

A grand home, not too ostentatious but imposing enough, is the central of Trebenstrasse tonight, drawing a steady stream of townsfolk to its door as the snow continues to fall into the darkening twilight. The lights of lanterns bob and sway in the dark, with the look of summer fireflies from a distance. A mingle of carriages and horses and the clip-clop of hooves and drivers in top hats; furs, red silk and black satin; the mild chatter of women, the low humming voices of men and the screeching and yelping of eager children running ahead of their parents. A mixture of sullen and perky adolescents trudge dutifully along. More than a few complain that it was much warmer in the carriage than it is standing here waiting on the door step waiting the next family's turn to make it in the front door.

It’s the annual Staulbaum Christmas Eve Party, when Albert Staulbaum, a partner in Staulbaum & Hoffmann, husband to his attractively French-born wife Madeline and father to Klara and her younger brother Fritz, opens his home to friends, colleagues, and extended family for the most elaborate evening of year. Silver is polished, crystal is scrubbed to sparkling and the family hires the local baker to create heaping trays of ginger breads and Lebkuchen, among other edibles. The ballroom, a chilly space towards the back of the home with a marble floor, tall windows and a garish glass chandelier for a centerpiece, is the main stage for this event. Waltzing is practically a requirement at these parties – even more imperative than champagne and brandy.

But nothing can outshine the towering Tannenbaum towards the middle of the room. Draped in shimmering tinsel, glowing glass bulbs of soft-red and blue and more than enough candles, it draws the eye of every guest as they saunter into the large room. If one had inspected the tree a bit closer, one would have spied odd little wooden figurines and dolls hanging from the branches. Yet look even closer and one would have been taken aback: a little woman with a sour, glum face and a bonnet; a grotesque gnome with a hostile snarl; a clown-like man with an angular face - all cartoons, but strangely enchanting from a child's perspective. These were all from the Lenzen toyshop on Hilgermannstrasse and the young lady of the house had proudly, quietly hung them up with the servants. Only the best would do. Not everyone, however, approved of the them. More than a few guests whispered their astonishment at the weird designs and only half of the room knew exactly who and wheree they came from - and it only confirmed their fears.

A fire roars in the corner. The Grandfather clock, nearly as impressive as the Tannenbaum, stands off to the corner of the room – an automaton wooden owl, perched permanently at the very top, flaps its wings and coos to herald the hour. Servants distribute glasses of anything sparkling or spiked for the parents and mulled cider for the children. Food abounds on tables in corners. The scent of steamy ginger and peppery chocolate is heavy in the air – hot spices, cinnamon, the menthol of pine needles and lemon polish stings the senses and it is a welcome, enveloping sensation when just arriving from the sheer frigidness of the iced air outside. Add to it a small, but vital local chamber orchestra that Frau Staulbaum has ordered for the evening and it is certain to be the holiday event that anyone who is anyone ought to be seen at.

Klara, small of frame, wide green eyes and dark honeyed hair, is tripping down the large staircase with anticipation of the evening. Right on the stroke of 6pm, she had dashed from her room, dressed in her finest blue and white striped silk gown, an early present the day before from her mother. “French blue,” her mother had told her with a wink, “And don’t forget the French!” Klara saved it specifically to wear for this evening. Time to put away studies and worries about her blemished face and her constant squabbling with her brother – and the fact that nowadays, she could not understand the instability of her emotions (now happy, now serene, now melancholy, now devastated at nothing in particular, then after a good cry, serene and back to happy). Well – none of _that_ tonight. Godfather Pieter Drosselmeyer was sure to arrive and she would have someone to focus her attentions on. Like a living, animated book, her Godfather entranced her like hypnosis whenever he was in the room. And much like reading, he steadied her. Klara always found her shoulders a bit more relaxed and her smiles a bit more easy when he was standing by her.

She had gotten little sleep the night before (too much excitement about this evening's festivities) and her mother had insisted that a short nap would do her good. She awoke refreshed but disoriented - she had dreamt about something, but could only vaguely remember what it was about. She remembered dancing with someone or something she loved and then someone or something interrupting that dance and feeling angry. That and some kind of small animal that was unpleasant. That was all. But there wasn't time to muse on that right now...

Stepping quietly into the ballroom, Klara’s eyes skim the faces of the crowd. He’s not there.

_Lovely –  that means more time to be anxious._

Her mother spots her, smiles and glides over.

“Klarissaaa!” (Ah yes: two glasses of champagne already, no doubt. It always made her mother even more loving than she already was. With her dark hair piled high in various nests, and warm brown eyes and Gallic olive skin – and dressed in a forest green gown that played off her coloring to perfection – well, her mother’s beauty often drew stares in public, but at a party like this with plenty of drink to go around, it felt as though everyone’s eyes followed her as she moved. Poor shy Klara was not much pleased by this – now everyone was looking at _her as well_.)

She lowered her head: “Is Godfather here yet?”

“Ohhh, Pieter! Nooo – no, not yet. He’ll show up soon. But come and speak to the Commissioner and his son. Now where did they go? I was just asking him if…ahhhh!” (Catching sight of her father.) “Papi! Mon beau, look at our Klarissa then.”

Her father, a tall man resplendent in his evening clothes, was naturally quiet like Klara. He never said a great deal, even as the host of his own Christmas ball. But he grinned affectionately.

“Our Klarissa is all grown up in that gown!”

“Oh, Papi. Please. I’m still me; still sixteen.”

“Ha, a little teasing for my only daughter. _Was sich liebt, das neckt sich._ ”

Her brother greeted her next.

There was only one word she could think of to describe her young brother: spoiled. Like most boys of 12, he thought only of himself and at this time of year, such behavior was ramped up to an unsightly level. A mop of curly dark blonde hair and a maleficent smirk were all Klara would see in her mind’s eye when she thought of her brother. That and the various small bruises he had dealt her when they were children.

“That’s right!” he half-yelled in Klara’s face. “Papi says teasing is love, so let’s love on Klara.”

With this, Fritz began taking the small tin box of toy soldiers he was carrying around with him and hurling them (quite innocuously, really) at Klara’s arm and chest. She swatted them away in as regal a manner as possible.

“Love!...Love!...”

Frau Staulbaum: “FRITZ!”

Fritz: “...Love!...Love! Oh, more love!”

“Oh for God’s sake, child,” and with that her father pushed him away, picked up the scattered soldiers and led him back to be properly scolded by one of the maids. The only problem was, one scolding never made much of a difference for him.

Her mother sighed. “I’m sorry, Klarissa. Your brother is bored.”

“Of course he is,” she replied. “ _He_ isn’t here yet. Hopefully he’ll bring something to occupy Fritz for the evening.”

 _And me_ , thought Klara to herself. _But for that, he need only bring himself_.

~~

**7:47pm**

A young person can only drink so much cider, eat so many delicacies and dance so many quadrilles or country dances before the party becomes stale. The children grew restless. There were always the adults to watch as they danced, but for a child, that only lasts so long. Klara, while not needing anything but a book to keep her occupied, was beginning to feel increasingly agitated. For one thing, it would be considered rude to read in the company of adults at a party. She was expected to dance (never a problem for her), charm her parents’ friends with recitations in French or English and enjoy the company of her own friends, though there were few of those. Most of them complained or found new reason to criticize some element of the food or temperature or Fritz’s tormenting. In sum – the younger audience were a miserable lot. Still no Godfather Drosselmeyer.

**8:04pm**

“What could be keeping him?” she asked her mother.

“I don’t know, mon petit. You know he’s often late. Perhaps he’s working late tonight,” and she stroked her daughter’s hair and face with a sleepy expression.

 _On Christmas Eve?_ , thought Klara.

“But his shop is closed tomorrow, Maman.” Her mother answered back by gazing at her and smiling.

_Ah yes. More champagne._

“Have you had anything to eat, Maman?”

A wink and another quick smile and her mother turned away, rather mysteriously.

**8:58pm**

Klara didn’t hear the carriage. Nor did she hear the door open or see the servants carrying the large box that emerged covered in a heavy cloth from the drive to the servant’s door at the side of the house.

She saw none of it, as Papi had requested the candles and lamps be darkened for the lighting of the Tannenbaum. It wasn’t until the entire party had clapped itself into hysterics at the sight of tree (with the Commissioner especially enthusiastic due to the brandy(s) he had been sipping) that Klara finally saw the cloaked figure that had been admitted into the ballroom.

He was the one clapping and hallooing the loudest just at that moment. Once everyone turned to see him, he was a bit bashful and terribly nervous. He bowed to the company and once he straightened up again, he and Klara met eyes. The pull between them, though unseen, was palpable to her. For a reason she did not comprehend, she couldn’t bring herself to walk up to him. Or send a welcoming smile his way. In fact, she was stone-cold frozen to the floor – scared. He was equally nervous and self-conscious staring at her, but he gazed at her with intensity, oblivious to what was happening around him.

The lamps were turned back up and to (most) everyone’s discomfort, there stood Herr Drosselmeyer, dressed in the 18th century costume he had worn to Fritz's birthday party before, complete with an unkempt white wig and his usual top hat for going out at night. His entire appearance was unsettling, but Klara could see by the understanding, but slightly pained expressions on people’s faces that they expected this kind of dramatic entrance. With his eye patch, it only added to his singularity of appearance. His hooked nose and tall frame actually could have made him look quite the villain. But he was far from that.

Her father was first to walk up to him, shake his hand and bid him a Merry Christmas, her mother next, with her arms stretched out in the most hospitable of movements. But the whispers were there in the crowd.

_“That outfit” – “So absurd” – “Makes no sense” – “Is he an actor?” ...”No, Gertrude, I told you, it’s the children’s Godfather.” … “Oh dear God, don’t tell me that…” – “How he stares at the girl!” – “He’ll scare the children” – “They said he was weird. Here’s your evidence…”_

In a sudden rush, the children spied her Godfather’s oversized bag of toys and with yelps and whoops came running towards him, much to his delight, as his face lit up and his shyness melted away into showmanship – some tugged on his coat, others jumped up and down. He bent down to speak to them, make introductions and did so with the sort of grace and understanding usually afforded to the children’s parents.

It was now that Klara gained the confidence to walk up to him. She saw his head was glistening like a halo with all that white. There was still snow in his hair.

“So glad you’re here at last! I think Maman and Papi had expected you sooner.”

He looked up at her, his eye shifting a bit left and then right.

“Oh! Oh yes. I do suppose I’m a bit late,” and shook his pocket watch nervously to his ear. “Blast. Dead again,” and eyed the Grandfather clock in the corner to compare the time. Klara noticed that he was momentarily fixated on the clock, as if an idea were coming into his head and gentle prodding from her as she tapped his arm could not shake his attention.

“The presents, Herr _Drosamwire_!” lisped one young girl, who jumped up and down as rapidly as possible. A young boy stood by, staring with furrowed brow at Drosselmeyer’s head of white hair, which was in such disarray with strands escaping here and there.

“And why did you come dressed up?” Klara inquired as delicately as she could. “It’s a marvelous costume!”

His hearty smile at the children’s antics folded back to neutrality as he regarded her slight figure standing next to him and he remained silent. Turning his back to Klara, her heart sank rapidly. She feared she had offended him. Before she could say anything further to soften any misunderstanding, he beckoned the children to gather round him. His easiness with children and the relaxed, unaffected way he interacted with them always impressed her. Her own shyness, even with the little ones, slowly thawed and she found being sociable less burdensome – simply because she was standing next to him.

This had been a Christmas Eve tradition for at least eight or nine years – Godfather Drosselmeyer offering samples, as it were, of his work to the children. The more the children loved them, the more their parents would come back to the shop and buy more. It was a cheap marketing trick, but decent enough. Out of the bag came a menagerie of animals, stuffed and carved: swans, dolls, bears, horses. Most of the children took their toy, curtsied, offered a “Danke” and tripped along to show their parents. Others grabbed and ran.

And then her Godfather turned to Fritz.

He innocently handed the boy a puppet made of soft grey fur, fashioned into a rat. It was a hideous looking thing, with bugling white eyes, protruding teeth and a pink tail that was horribly offensive to Klara and she didn’t really know why. She also was curious as to why he gave her brother, always one to cause harm in some way or other, the most devious toy that she knew he would no doubt use against her. Why couldn’t he have given Fritz a toy kitten or a horse? Why a – rat? It would put ideas in her brother’s head and her Godfather should have known this. Why something so distasteful? Against her silent prayers that he would perhaps torment someone else, Fritz ran towards her and pushed the rat into her face, nearly knocking her down.

“Käse-Gesicht! He’ll eat your face!” and laughed with the base joy of any twelve year old demon of a brother.

While a servant tore the boy away and distracted him with a lemon tart, Klara looked to her Godfather. He didn’t reprimand her brother; he simply brushed back the stray strands of his wig and gazed down into his empty bag, turning it inside out. Their eyes met.

“And let’s see…for Klara? Ha! Nothing here, then! Eh? Gone! Next year, you’d best shake off your shyness and grab and get as greedy as the youngsters! Haha…”

 _What?_ This wasn’t necessarily like him. Not at all. This cutting her down with a casual air and then not answering her earlier when she asked about his costume. What was he playing at? Klara’s sweet expression fell into one of extreme confusion. She was never one to demand anything, least of all from him. But perhaps he was teasing?

“I…I…don’t understand...I’m sorry if – “

He began to giggle and the most loving, mischievous expression spread across his lips. He gazed into her eyes with tenderness, then winked.

“I have something special for you.”

She laughed and gasped all at once. Relief. But the confusion of emotions sent her head spinning a bit. She felt her shoulders relax again. But this short mind game he had just played was not appreciated.

A large, dark leather box was being wheeled in on a cart in the back of the room, Drosselmeyer waving it in with a commanding air. Although the rest of the company was intrigued, Klara’s mother did not seem surprised in the slightest. She turned to her daughter and gave her another wink and a playful arch of an eyebrow. So Maman knew? Her Godfather confirmed it.

“I begged your mother for a late arrival this evening,” he shouted back to her over his shoulder as he scrambled to help the nervous kitchen boys who were unsure as to what they had been told to handle with the utmost care. “There were finishing touches…anyway,” and he swirled around towards her and their eyes met again. “I have a notion you’ll be impressed!”

The box was lifted off to reveal an intricate doll house that was so exotic, delicate and smooth in appearance that it looked edible. Shaped like a Sultan’s palace or a Russian church, it was the most beautiful example of Drosselmeyer’s craftsmanship that she had seen for some time. 

“Herr Drosselmeyer! It’s so beautiful…but…what is it? It is meant for dolls?”

“Dancing ones!” he replied and bowed slightly to her. “For a dancing girl, like you...um…but please,” he leaned towards her and spoke into her ear, lowering his voice just enough to be audible, his warm breath caressing her neck as he spoke; she could have sworn he was doing it on purpose. “Call me Pieter. No formalities tonight!” He stepped back, but it disturbed Klara even more that he didn’t look at her. Instead he began fiddling with a gold key.

Klara often took to addressing him in a formal way when she felt the need for deference. Or in a social setting. But she did not expect him to break down the wall of this courtesy between them, especially after his odd behavior a few minutes before. This felt inappropriate. Wrong.

“Come! See what’s inside. There’s this key, you see, and it turns the mechanism like this. Now watch!” He pointed to a small doorway in the castle and inside were small figurines that were wonderfully life-like. It was a delicate ballerina and as the twingle of the music box melody began to play, she danced to the left and to the right by the miracle of gears and cogs and her Godfather’s own mechanical magic. Even Fritz was intrigued enough to settle down and stare into the beautiful box with enough calmness and awe.

Drosselmeyer caught sight of his Goddaughter’s astonished face and his smile grew wider; now she could see that something was building inside him. Her delight was egging him on. To what, Klara didn’t know, but whatever it was, was catching and there was no stopping it. The more she expressed her show of gratitude, the happier he became.

She didn’t understand or know why, but the fact that she was causing all of this was enough to send her heart soaring. Yet, she also felt she was overstepping some invisible boundary. She saw out of the corner of her eye how he was staring at her while she watched the little dancing figures. She couldn’t see his face, but she felt his eye fixed on her face and didn’t dare to match his gaze. It made her want to look at him more. She wanted him to look at her, a sensation that was new to her, but not unwelcome. It also made her want to never look at him again.

Next was a little wooden soldier, in full Ottoman regalia, waving a sword here and there with its tiny arms. How such small toys could move with such precision amazed everyone. The children mimicked the dolls movements with one another while the adults took turns to shake her Godfather’s hand, congratulating him on such an achievement. He was bashful and unable to process what was happening, constantly stealing a glance at Klara as first her parents and then the rest of the company gathered around him. Otherwise, his gaze hit the floor and he looked no one in the eye, with the exception of her own parents.

All he cares about is what I think, she thought. Smiling brightly, she nodded in his direction and sent a look of approval. He returned the smile, but something was not quite right again. He seemed uneasy, like he was hiding a secret - or desperate, so Klara thought, to communicate something to her. But what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying this! :-) The next chapter should show up in a few days as will the Pinterest page, which I'm perfecting at the moment. 8) As always, please leave comments or kudos as you see fit! ^_^


	4. A Soldier to Protect Her

But soon her mother announced, in a voice that was beginning to sound a little slurred, that her lovely friend Frau Heinzmann, late of the Berlin Opera House, would sing a short aria while coffee was served. Her husband would accompany on the piano. The company began to gather in the parlor and the commotion left the ballroom quite empty, with only a few people choosing to linger by the Tannenbaum, Klara and her Godfather included. The chamber orchestra were especially pleased for a break from their duties and Klara spied the bass player tip-toeing towards a platter of ginger biscuits.

“What _is_ this?” she heard one man, with a greying beard and reddened face, mutter to his wife, as he sat like a discarded doll on a chair in the corner. His wife, a tall woman with a straight back, sat upright and eyed the commotion around the piano in the next room drolly. “A talent show? Everyone showing off. What’s next, will the servants recite Goethe? It’s Christmas, damn it. And it’s late. All of this nonsense.”

“Well, dear,” murmured his wife, “the funny chap with the toys entertained the children. That should count for something.”

“Ach, Helga, that degenerate? Shouldn’t be let near children. Look at him.”

Enraged, embarrassed and hoping that her Godfather, who was still fiddling with the music box, didn’t hear them, Klara was about to leave the room when she felt a hand rest heavily and emphatically on her shoulder from behind.

Her Godfather stepped in front of her. “Klara…dear…I...I have something else for you. I waited until now because…well…it was something special I had in mind for you.” While her Godfather said this, he led her to a corner of the room, but slowly walked her backwards, his hand still resting on her shoulder. It felt familiar and warm, but the force he was using, however gentle, was making her uncomfortable.

Stammering, trying to find her voice: “Oh…the…the music box was quite enough. Everyone was so amused! What could be more special than that?”

He said nothing, still slowly backing her to the wall near the Tannenbaum as he stood close to her. Then he stopped. His hand was still resting on her shoulder. Silence between them. Just breathing. His eye was beginning to look moist to Klara’s perception. A small grin was on his lips and he seemed to be gazing at her from behind an invisible, impenetrable veil or a glass window, wanting…something, but unable to obtain it.

“Every lady needs a soldier to protect her,” he intoned quietly. “Please – let him look after you.”

From out of the leather box that had housed the magnificent musical palace emerged a nutcracker doll – painted to look like a soldier with a black beard and black eyes – and a hooked nose like his. It wore a red crown and red coat, with a sword on its side. While it was again a wonderful example of Drosselmeyer’s carving and painting skill, she wasn’t quite sure what to make of this and – well, this was a doll. She was 16 and quite beyond dolls. _I read books_ , she thought. _What do I do with this?_

“It’s a functional object, I assure you” he said with a slight tone in his voice – he was trying to hide it, but he sounded offended and subtly pursed his lips to one side in frustration. She must have seemed ungrateful. He whisked it out of her hands and moved the lever up and down. “You can use it to crack open the hard shells of hazelnuts or chestnuts. Quite useful at this time of year.” He held it close to him while he pretended to examine it and despite her staring at his face intently, he lowered his own head a bit and withdrew into himself rapidly. He was disappointed and the annoyed melancholy on his face was unmistakable.

_Now what have I done?_

Nothing was said for a moment, with only the sound of Frau Heinzmann singing in French in the next room, a beautiful lilting melody that spoke of the ache of a pining heart -

 

_My Beloved companion, the kind shepherd_

_For whom I pine and long to reveal my passion,_

_Alas, he has not come to dance..._

Klara thought her ears caught the sound of her mother joining in with her own soprano voice. The piano trickled along. The soft occasional clink of a coffee cup. The man in the corner chair had fallen fast asleep and was gently snoring.

She glanced over her shoulder at the magnificent doll house.

“How did you get that here tonight?” she asked.

He glanced up, still a hint of sadness on his face. “Oh, your parents sent a carriage for me.”

The very thought of it, despite its practicality, made her chuckle a bit. He always walked. “Well, that must have been an experience!”

He said nothing.

_I am here, but sad and pining: see how I have wasted away_

_I must not be bashful; I have concealed my passion long enough..._

 

With a sigh, Klara was about to apologize once again for saying something the wrong way when he suddenly stopped and said:

“You…you know the stories we’ve read recently about battles in the snow – “

“That Russian novel? With the cannon and swords?”

“Yes!” He began to brighten a little. “Well, I thought you’d remember it when you saw…”

_Aha._

“Oh!!” she breathed in, “I see!” Smiling as widely as she could, she took the nutcracker from him. “Well, it’s beautiful, really. Thank you…Pieter.” He blinked hearing his name and his face began to relax again.

She turned the nutcracker over in her hands as the object grew on her affections, now that she understood his intentions by it. She thought she saw a group of children sitting in the corner across the room, whispering and pointing at it. The color certainly caught the eye. And then she made a terribly bold move that surprised even her.

“He’s nearly as handsome as you.”

Now something deeply altered in the way her Godfather stared at her. She may have been young and still learning to understand what was appropriate, what wasn’t and how to reign in her tongue when need be, but even she knew this was a foolish thing to say. It was as if he stopped breathing. He lazily gazed at her and his lips parted; his head was jittering slightly. But whatever emotion he was feeling was unrecognizable to her. She heard the music come to its end in the next room and the applause. He looked at her as if he were waiting for something more to happen. The crowd was beginning to talk again in the next room.

It was at that instant that Klara realized his attention was completely arrested on her and she feared that he may have been offended somehow.

“Oh, that was silly of me!” she exclaimed, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry for my silliness.” _What more can I say?_

Suddenly he took one half-step towards her, extending his head down towards her small frame –

“Do you mean it?” he asked, half-whispering.

 _Yes, of course I do._ But this thought was not her own voice somehow.

She didn’t answer – instead she changed the subject.

“Didn’t you say he was to protect me?”

He nodded slowly. He was in a strange daze.   _Is he angry or happy?_

“Well, then. You’ll have to be his second in command!” Maybe a small joke would set things to right.

He completed the half step into a whole one and let out a soft chuckle, settling closer to her. “Oh, well, I’m not a soldier. I’m not too good with a sword.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Klara saw one of the children walking towards her rapidly, but ignored it. People were streaming into the ballroom from the parlor.

“Ah, but you’re good with a knife!”

“Yes, I suppose…but – I – I – I can’t…defend…” and with his he touched his eye patch absentmindedly. His face fell a bit.

“Can’t defend wha-”

_“ **AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!** ”_

From out the nowhere, Fritz had swooped past her, yelling and grabbing the solider nutcracker and ran off so quickly across the room that she barely had time to react.

His like-minded friends followed him, shouting “Charge! Attack! Murder the assailant!” Whooping and hollering and giggling, the pack of boy-hyenas ran off. One of the boys pumped his fist in the air in jubilation.

(Klara: “NO! FRITZ, YOU GARGOYLE!”)

In one instant, her brother had driven his own toy sword into the jaw of the poor wooden soldier and with a loud crack, the wood shattered, shooting off a piece of the nutcracker’s face across the floor. He still held the rat puppet in his hand, so seemingly in his imagination, it was the rat that was doing the killing. The children shouted their hoorays at the victory, but their faces quickly became ashen when they saw Drosselmeyer and they stepped back. Except Fritz, who was being harshly hauled away by Anna, the maid.

When Klara turned to her Godfather, she saw what the boys were scared of: he was solemn, cool, and staid – regarding the broken pieces on the floor with a reflective nature he normally never exhibited. He looked frightfully serious - an unusual sight to be seen when Herr Drosselmeyer was visiting. Fritz had acted up as a child before but had never drawn this response from him.

Her mother: “What’s happened!?”

The man in the chair, jolting awake: “Is the poetry finished?”

Her father: “Anna, take him upstairs. That’s quite enough for the evening. Now what broke?”

While all of this was going on, Klara had burst into tears, involuntarily burying herself into Drosselmeyer’s chest with her arms clasped to her own. “I’m so sorry, Godfather,” she mumbled into his clothing. Her tears began to soak his shirt and cravat. She inhaled his scent and it was a mixture of spices and the faint, familiar aroma of chemicals he used in his shop. Why she was crying for a broken nutcracker of all things she couldn’t say, but the high emotion of the evening was seriously taxing her nerves. Feeling elated, feeling insulted, feeling as though she had insulted someone else, then elated by gifts only to feel guilty once again by misunderstanding it all - then the gift being destroyed.

She felt his arms wrap around her and he stood there, holding her gently. She felt his angular chin rest on the crown of her head, gingerly. Sniffling and catching her breath as her heartbeat began to slow again, she opened her eyes – only to close to them again.

“Oh…oh it’s alright,” he was saying quietly to her, as if trying to coax himself out of some reverie: “I think I can mend it.” His grip around her became firmer and for a fleeting moment, she thought she felt him kiss her head (warmth, moisture), but that wasn’t like him. Were they tears?

No escaping from this.

She had no desire to move, sinking her head against his chest again. It was a wordless signal.

That is, until she realized that people were probably watching. She finally lifted her head. Yes, some were and their expressions were not entirely benevolent. Quickly she straightened up and smoothed her gown, wiping her eyes and backing away from him. As usual with her, she didn’t dare look him in the eye at such a moment.

Her Godfather was less concerned that she had broken their embrace and was now focused on the nutcracker as he walked across the room to pick up the pieces. And so he did, taking out a little lace-lined handkerchief from his coat pocket (for he always had a handkerchief - just as he always carried a pencil and paper for jotting down ideas for new toy and clock designs) to use as a bandage around the poor little wooden man’s head. He did this with such care, you would have thought it was a living thing.

“There,” he said almost to himself, “Fit for service again.”

Her mother, serene and stable as a dove now after all that champagne, came up to her and placing her hands on her shoulders, she whispered, “Be sure to tell him thank you.”

She looked back at her mother, ashamed at her own childish public display. “I’m sorry I cried, Maman. I – “

“Never mind that now; just thank him, Klarissa; he’s done so much for you tonight.” And she smiled reassuringly.

_She’s right._

The room was busy with couples lining up together; it was time for the last dance of the evening. Many people had already bid their goodbyes after the singing recital, providing much more room for a sprightly dance. As the chamber orchestra was tuning, she slipped off guiltily to her Godfather. He was standing off in the corner where the nutcracker had fallen.

“I’ll take him back home tonight and set him back to rights if you wish,” he said as she glided stealthily towards him. She didn't want to make herself any more obvious than she had to.

“Oh yes, thank you, I would like that,” she said sweetly. And she did. “Thank you,” and she leaned up to kiss him gently on the cheek.

It was an innocent gesture, not meant to incite anything but an awareness of her gratitude, and she truly meant what she said. He smiled down at her again – his eye widened a bit.

But before he could respond, her mother’s voice rang out over the crowd as she gestured dramatically standing before the chamber orchestra: “One last dance, then, my friends! What will it be? A waltz? A schottish?”

A male voice answered in a high, drunken glee that took Klara aback: “A country dance!”

She turned in horror to where that voice was coming from – right next to her. It was Drosselmeyer, in full on, wild-eyed euphoria.

“Come, let’s dance this one!” he cried and he ran – literally ran – from one end of the ballroom to the other placing the nutcracker on its side near the silver punch bowl. Just as soon as it was nurtured back to health, the poor little wooden man sat forgotten surrounded by spills of pale orange-red liquid.

Klara winced.

_NO. Don't make me do this again..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go! It's the Nutcracker chapter. ;-) I don't feel as though this is my best, as it was partially written when I first published the other chapters and I edited this one like mad. I was going to make this a longer chapter, but decided to split it in two. Better than you all read it than it just sit there on my computer!
> 
> Next time, the dance - ! :-) 
> 
> I promise I'll have that one up in much shorter time. And my apologies for not having the Pinterest page up yet...trust me, it's coming. It's been created and is half-done but I'm a bit of a perfectionist. ;-) The first playlist is done and I will try to set up a YouTube channel to accompany it later tonight.
> 
> If anyone has any complaints, comments, concerns - feel free to post them here! I'm very much a feedback kind of gal, lol.


	5. "She's far too young for that sort of thing..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi All! This is one of the pivotal early scenes, so I had to spend some time on it.  
> You'll see that I had to come up with a way for Klara to act so strange at the end of the dance. *Something* had to be said that would alter things suddenly. The man has few social skills. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

The prospect of dancing with her Godfather, despite whatever natural warmth was certainly felt for him, did not fill Klara with unbridled joy. It never did, only because of one very vivid memory when she was fourteen. A dance between the two of them had gone massively wrong, even though it all came about with the most kindly of intention. This had been at her parents’ Christmas Eve party two years earlier. She was just old enough to begin really dancing with the grownup guests but was still expected to have a partner of her own age.

_“You’re to dance with your brother, dear,” her mother had instructed her, only a few moments before her very first dance as a true adolescent began. She had just asked her father to dance with her, which she found to be quite sophisticated._

_“W…wha…What? Fritz?! I can’t! He’s ten! Please –“_

_“Klara,” her father barked, “he needs a distraction - anything. Our guests have had just about enough of his carrying on. This dance is simple enough, please…do as you’re told.”_

It could be said, without any disagreement, that Fritz was always in need of distraction to keep him from throwing things.

Not surprisingly, her brother never showed up. They later found him tucked away behind the stairs, hastily gobbling an orange. Instead, her Godfather stepped in – a very unorthodox gesture – but Klara was enamored by it, if not stupefied by the shock of how new it felt to be her Godfather’s dancing partner. Guests standing nearby in the ballroom noticed this and found it troubling by the looks on their faces; and if that wasn’t jarring enough, his dancing was embarrassing. Horribly embarrassing. For a “simple dance”, he was unable to keep time to the 1-2-3 hop of the folkish tune. All she cared about was that her beloved hero, Herr Drosselmeyer, had rescued her but she vowed to never to dance with him again.

Now in the present moment, being forced (as she could not surmise a way out of it) of enduring his gawky movements was unwelcome.

“Maman, please. I can’t do this.”

Her mother was truly puzzled.

 “Why don’t – “

“Tell him I’m ill, still shaken from Fritz break – I mean – tell him I’m embarrassed or – just tell him I’m tired and need to sit down.”

To Klara’s dismay, Frau Stahlbaum laughed heartily. “What?? Come, child – you’re not ill, I can see that. So he doesn’t dance gracefully,” and then she leaned in, cupped her hand over her daughter’s ear, her mother’s violette cologne filling her nostrils: “Everyone’s looking at you, mon petit – now don’t be difficult. _One_ dance, Klarissa, really…” and her mother cocked her head with a look of mild warning.

That was that.

The dance began with a bow to your partner, a twirl of the lady, another bow, then turning to the lady or gentleman behind you, you honored your neighbor, more twirls and then, with your partner, a jolly gallop down a diagonal line, crisscrossing with three other couples in your line of vision. At one point, you made an arch and the couple ducked under.

It may have been only one dance, but it was not the simple one of two years ago.

_Perhaps he’s had lessons since then?_

Klara had her back to the punch bowl, watching her mother take her place next to her father. When, with a sigh, she turned around, he was already standing in front of her. She was stuck; no moving now. His face began building into a silent scream of joy, an open smile and that wide eyed expression again. He had the air of a man who had found the lost item he had been searching for – only it had turned up in the green eyes of a young teenage girl. There, music starting; no time to say anything.

The minuet opening bars swept over the little crowd (now only ten couples) and Klara grinned as bravely as she could. As she dropped into a low curtsy, her Godfather bowed deeply – and stayed there for several moments; he appeared unable to gauge how long this action took or what was acceptable. To her surprise, no one noticed, as she snatched a quick glance left and then right. He eagerly put his hand out to her for a short twirl and gingerly, she took it. It was the briefest of moments, but something about his grasp on her fingers felt so warm. And as he pulled her into him, without warning, her back straightened. He had a dignified, if not an ebullient quality to his steps and it made her feel as though she were the most elegant female in the room, the two violins sounding like an entire symphony orchestra. With an inhale and the time lapse of seconds, she trusted that he was going to move gracefully, regally.

Yet, just as she expected, he simply walked in a clumsy circle, not taking his gaze off her and she had to twirl herself. She exhaled. _Well, so much for hopes._

Then came the bowing to the neighbor behind you. When she faced him again, he was standing in one spot and looking like an idiot, confused but content.

She gave him her small hand again for another twirl and he regarded it with incredulity, as if he couldn’t begin to imagine that she was doing this. He finally held it above her head and let her twirl before the dance became a gallop across the room: the gentleman led the ladies in a skip in one direction, then back again.

This he did with near aplomb. Except, while the other men were skipping, he was walking in long, pigeon-toed stomps in a frightful hurry, just as she had feared; he dragged Klara instead of leading her and she felt her neck muscles strain to follow her body. But as he came back to place, he half-dipped her and snorted a little laugh, his large nose only inches from hers. He was making a joke of this and instead of feeling mortified, Klara actually found herself enjoying this. It gave her a good giggle and she began to relax, seeing whatever tension had existed previously begin to melt away and that he was partially aware of his own missteps. He had no conception of keeping time with the music.

She desperately wanted to speak to him and give encouragement, but she followed the protocol drummed into her by her dance instructor: no talking, no tripping.

When the next eight bars of the tune began, each couple was supposed to shift to their left, finding new couples to dance with. To her humiliation, he stood still. She motioned for him to come along with her but he refused. She saw the man and woman next to them share a look, roll their eyes and walk past them. He continued to stand still, not understanding or knowing what came next.

“Do you know this?” she asked. She had no choice; she had to help him _somehow_.

He simply shook his head “no”, that goofy smile never leaving his mouth, but Klara wasn’t sure he had heard her question at all. Why, then, did he ask for a country dance? And then she remembered: their first dance together two years ago. It was all he had memory of – that stupid 1-2-3 hopping number.

With an exasperated sigh she couldn’t hide, she tried to follow the steps again and keep in time with the music, but he was even more confused than before, as he was not remembering the steps they had just completed. She walked around him once again and he simply turned in a circle of his own to make up for his lack of movement.

But then she herself forgot what was happening and stepped the wrong way. He winked over those beautifully curled lips of his and as her reserves of strength were nearly totally empty, she giggled and nodded. He seemed to gain more confidence from this sharing of feeling and the goofy smile morphed into tender-eyed delight and humor as she led him through the dance one more time.

Again, he skipped with her and this time, he nearly got it right. It was time to shift to a new couple. Once again, he simply stayed with her, unable to understand the shifting of couples in a set. For many more bars of the music, they simply changed spots on the floor among the other couples. She was smiling so hard that her face hurt. Joy. Joy. _Joy._

“My my, Klarissa,” he said as neared the end of the dance ( _Wait, why is he calling me that? Only Maman calls me that)_ and his left hand was lodged firmly on her waist and hip – it felt as though it took up her entire right side – “You could be a harem dancer…”

_My God… what did he say? No, he didn’t say that._

“A thousand sultans would give” and then the music swelled like twenty bees all making a nest in her ears at once, so she didn’t hear what else he was saying over the roar. She only saw his mouth moving.

He had not said these words in a sensuous, leering way; he was as matter-of-fact as commenting on her dancing ability or the fact that it was snowing or that it was Christmas Eve or that they lived in Germany or that her younger brother was a spoiled brat who ate too much. It all happened so fast.

As they skipped back and the dance ended in a stroke of strings, he placed the hand that was on her waist on her right shoulder, palm enveloping her collar bone, still gleeful as before. This was done in a sign of good faith and friendship and he still had his gaze locked firmly on her face. His hand was sweating and the heat of it felt bothersome. This, too, was not a seductive gesture. It was platonic and the sharp contrast between words and actions were confusing. To Klara, in all the education of human relations that her innocence afforded, this still made no sense and came across as an insult. First, one did not compliment a lady in such a scandalous manner and then pat her on the shoulder as one would a fellow chum at school; nor did a gentleman tell the woman he was dancing with that she was shaped like…

He must be trying to goad her, but why?

The mind games earlier in the evening; the over familiar way he had been acting with her, wanting her to call him Pieter just because he made her what amounted to a giant, ostentatious music box; the strange business of the nutcracker and now this.

 Klara delicately shrugged his hand away.

Overcome with feelings she had no conception of how to express, she only gave a weak, short grin that did not reflect in her eyes, curtsied and backed away from him.

“Thank you for the dance,” she said.

His face fell, but slowly. Bewildered and genuinely hurt, he narrowed his eye at her as she began moving away.

“Klara?”

With everyone around her chattering gaily, she didn’t hear him. She was walking away slowly with her back to him, zigzagging through the small crowd to find someone – anyone – that she knew so she could hide. She had not taken her leave in a manner that could be perceived as rude by any means, as she was at least too mature for that. She had simply not parroted the enthusiasm he had been exhibiting to her and couldn’t hide the offense she had taken to his words and behavior. Like a miracle, her friend Elsie, who had been too busy flirting with one of the Commissioner’s sons to say much to Klara the whole evening, now appeared at the opposite end of the ballroom.

“I saw the doll Herr Drosselmeyer gave you!” she quipped.

“It’s not a doll. It’s a nutcracker.”

 _“Klara?”_ His voice – it always sounded like a small boy’s at a distance, high-pitched and sorrowful.

“A what?”

“Nutcracker…never mind. I don’t wish to talk about it now.”

_“Kla…”_

Elsie was gazing warily across at Drosselmeyer. “Um, he’s…calling for you. Oh wait. He’s leaving!”

Klara spun around just in time to see him angrily whipping the air with his hand above his head to get one of the servant’s attention. He was asking for his coat and hat. As the servant disappeared, she swiftly stood behind Elsie, thinking perhaps he’d lose sight of her. All it did was make her look childish.

Her Godfather knit his brows like a dog does when it knows it has done wrong and you have scolded it. His lips were open again, as if ready to call out to her, but he did not; instead, his head bowed, and Klara caught him blinking repeatedly as he stared at the floor a few moments, standing there with his arms hanging by his side. The hair of his theatrical wig was even more askew after all that dancing and running.

Elise continued to babble on about the evening’s events, but Klara wasn’t listening. She was frozen to the floor again, just as she had when he first came at the start of the evening. But it wasn’t fear; it was humiliation and a sense of betrayal.

In any other circumstance (that is, if someone else had caused him distress), she would have rushed to his side and tried her best to cheer him, as that was what he had done for _her_ throughout her childhood. She was used to him being her champion, her hero, her brother in arms. But now, words or actions failed her. What was right? What was wrong? What if someone had heard him out there? What would everyone think of her if she hung onto him after such a bold statement as he had made?

Her parents’ guests were beginning to gather their things and leave one by one, taking time to bid the Stahlbaums a goodnight. Klara knew her Godfather had no choice but to also pay his respects before departing and while she would normally have been the one to show him to the door, she stayed put. Just as he was hastily wrapping his coat around him using short, jerking movements that clearly expressed his frustration, Fritz showed up, rat puppet still securely fixed on his hand. Her parents must have let him come back down to thank Drosselmeyer for the gift. As soon as he fixed his eye on Fritz’s hand, he fell back into that good-natured cheerfulness he reserved only for children, only this time  there was something off. The grimace that had darkened his face evaporated into a strange enlightenment – a triumphant beaming smile. She couldn’t hear what was being said, but she saw him shake the limp leg of the rat puppet as he bent towards Fritz. They were exchanging soft, short words, looking like conspirators.

On his way past – as he walked straight out of the room without any words to either her father or mother, to Klara’s shock – she tried to approach him.

“Goodnight, Godfather.” Drenched in guilt, her head was empty of anything else to add.

He barely slowed his gait, assessed her up and down out of the corner of his eye, and scurried away, his fine face lined with what she could only identify as a kind of fear, as if he were afraid of her now. She followed him, keeping enough distance so he wouldn’t notice and saw him go back into the parlor, grab his gigantic bag that the toys had been brought in, sling it over his shoulder, and walk straight out the front door with his fist clasped tightly behind his back, his slouching posture and outstretched neck making him look older than he was.

“Where’s Pieter?” she overheard her father ask her mother.

“Oh no, did he leave? Why so suddenly, Albert? Did he say goodnight to you?"

“No…well, no worries. I’ll ask Anna to send him Gertrude’s pflaumenkuchen for breakfast tomorrow.”

“Oh yes, the plum cake; I could send Klara?”

The girl in question pretended not to hear them and rearrange the folds of her gown. She felt her father’s eyes on her.

“No, Maddie. Leave it to Anna. I think Klara’s had enough for tonight.”

Around 30 minutes later, while the servants were sweeping away crumbs and collecting soiled glasses and cups and she was upstairs preparing for bed, she caught Fritz standing ominously in her doorway. He was _still_ grasping that benighted, ghastly rat puppet.

“Fritz, go to bed.”

“…You could have been kinder to him.” His face was calm, which was disconcerting in itself.

She had no chance to defend herself. He turned away, still straight faced, and was gone.

~~

Though it was close to midnight, the possibility of sleep eluded her. How could anyone think about sleep after what happened?

_I need to find a way to say I’m sorry. But do I? Shouldn’t he do so first? Maybe he’ll write me tomorrow. Should I even dare to tell Maman? Now let me remember: did I say anything to Elsie about it?_

Restless, she threw a thick shawl around her, silently slipped out of her room, down the hall and was about to cross to the servant’s stairs with no clear direction as to where she was going when she heard voices in the stairwell and stopped at the top. It was Marta and Gertrude, the kitchen staff, speaking relatively loudly despite the late hour and the family in bed. She thought she heard the distinct sound of liquid swishing from a bottle and slurping noises. Crouched by the door at the top of the stairs, she smelt the distinct aroma of brandy...

“I saw the Mrs and Master waltzing together in the ballroom a while ago; they didn’t think I saw.”

“Ohh, is that so? Well, so sweet, the two of them. She may have her French ways, but he did well when he picked that one up.”

“Yes, she always has the most interesting people over – all these artist kinds.”

“Or that toy maker – what’s his name, that circus freak?”

“Drossyfire or something.” This was pronounced with a drone of disgust.

Marta’s voice sped up and the gossiping began. “Honestly, did you see the way he kissed the girl’s head like that?”

“I tell you, Marta, I-tell-you! She’s far too young for that sort of thing – getting romanced [at this, Marta gasped loudly in a sympathetic response, with high drama] at sixteen and by her father at that – God preserve us all!”

“Well, Godfather, that is, but…”

“Ach! Whatever he is! Old enough! A man like him – such a weird…well! He should know better, that’s what I say. And he can’t dance worth a pfennig.”

“Ohhhhhh you can say that, then! And when he closed his eye, did you see that? When young Fritz broke the wooden man? With his arms around her!”

“OooOOoohh! Now I tell you what: my own Hans didn’t take a pass at me when we were courting, mind! But didn’t that come all furiously once my father gave his promise of me to him. But my imagination kept me warm at night until then.”

“Ahahha! I wonder what ghastly things that Droszelmeyser was imagining, eh?”

“Oh Marta, pox on you, fräulein!” And the two of them burst into fits of gasps and giggles before they closed the door and their voices disappeared.

~~

In the numbing void in which we all linger just before the mercy of sleep takes hold of us, when echoes of the day come to haunt us only for a little time, the sweet music of her parents’ piano began to sing – small bits and pieces of Bach, Mozart, Beethoven – what any child of good society was taught to play; the everyday sounds of her household. As if to pass the time, she nearly found herself humming along. And then one note of Mozart led her to remember the evening’s recital – the French song her mother’s friend was singing – with a sudden start, Klara heard the final words of the song and could not fathom how she had not heard them earlier. She remembered this was a duet, two people singing over one another:

_My beloved shepherd_

_I have languished for you_

                             _How I have pined for you_

_How I have pined for you_

                             _But you did not know_

_How I have longed for you_

_You have been hiding from me_

_I know not why…._

“Every lady needs a soldier to protect her,” he had said. Why? Isn’t that what fathers and lovers are usually meant to do? Why not he? Why offer a blasted nutcracker as some kind of cartoon talisman for her in place of his own assertion of defense? What did she need protecting from, anyway? His words didn’t make any sense to her

Then Klara realized the ludicrousness of what she was saying: Herr Drosselmeyer wasn’t her lover nor her real father. He was a family friend, with religious obligations to her as a Godfather in the Lutheran church. _He can’t protect you…that’s God’s job.  
_

As she lay awake in bed again, eyes closed, the chiffon roar of falling snow outside her windows, she found herself saying aloud:

“I thought you were my friend.”

_And I thought you were mine._

It sounded audible. It came from nowhere. It was like her Godfather’s voice but wasn’t. It sounded as if it were in another country, the vibrations finding their way into her mind somehow. She was perfectly aware that no one else was in the room with her. She would have sat up to see if maybe it was Fritz playing some trick beneath her bed (since now it was quite obvious he was on Drosselmeyer’s side, although how that had come to fruition during the evening was a mystery to her), but she felt so warm under the blankets and the fight was finally all gone…

_Wait! He didn’t take the nutcracker to fix as he said he would.  
_

Better go down and find it. It should still be near the punch bowl where he left it. If Fritz where to get at it...

But she didn't move...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, here you are! As you see, it takes me usually an extra day or two beyond when I originally intend to post. As I said, I'm a perfectionist and I'd rather you have something really good to sink your literary teeth into. ;-) 
> 
> **The Pinterest page is up and running!**  
> https://www.pinterest.com/faith_hope_love2014/the-toymakers-wife/  
> It's not completely finished to my satisfaction, but it's a start!  
> Please leave comments! Next chapter appearing by this coming weekend, I'd say. ;-)


	6. Traversing the Unconscious World

And so it went that Klara unraveled the mystery of that night and began to understand him.

The funny chap…

the degenerate…

the circus freak with the long nose, handsome face and strange, childish ways.

~~

Klara had a distinct memory, as sure as she lived, of going downstairs to the empty ballroom and finding the silver punch bowl still on the table by the window, the red nutcracker laying on its side, the lace handkerchief still snugly fit around its little jaw. There was no denying this was real – she was sure of it. But what came after was in a haze, but not so obscured that she could not recall details.

There was a battle, that she knew – of cannons and swords – there in her parents’ ballroom and the battle was fought by rats or mice. It seemed to have all started over Klara accidentally stepping on the one of the rat’s tails. This as a grand insult in the land of mice and rats and was the signal to provoke an all-out war between vermin and human realms. Soldiers appeared, not unlike the wooden Hussar that Pieter had fashioned for her. But before all of this, she had seen a very, very frightening image that told what was to come would not be entirely pleasant:

The winged owl above the tall grandfather clock in the ballroom had been transformed into her Godfather, his long coat outstretched for wings and his top hat still on his head. It was him and not him in a way she could never explain, but whatever this creature was, her Godfather was inhabiting it. It felt as though he was burning his eyes - even the one he did not have - into Klara's soul as she helplessly stood under him, unable to move. The first thought that crossed her mind was a very pragmatic “how precisely did he crawl up there?”. His face was maniacal - traces of torment, intentional cruelty or vengeance. But it really looked like a man whose face was contorted by strong weeping veiled behind a maleficent smile. It read, “I’m doing this to hurt you because you have wounded me.”

And then from the clock came a scurry of rats – horrid, snarling, sniggering, child-like rats, all bent on the destruction of Klara Stahlbaum. She glanced up again at her Godfather perched menacingly, like a hard, dark bird ready to tear its prey on the ground to pieces with its sharp talons, and later recalled feeling a strong emotion of betrayal.

“So it’s you?” she found herself asking him wordlessly.

“ _You’re_ the rat.” He wasn't moving. His lips stayed pressed firmly and angrily together. How was he speaking to her? She heard him plainly.

“Why? What have I done?”

Silence.

Instead, a large creature with three rat heads (or one rat head with two extra heads appearing on either side) wearing her Godfather’s coat appeared before her. It regarded her unemotionally for a moment, then held its paw to her, bowing awkwardly at the waist – in an unmistakable gesture that begged a dance.

Aside from the preposterous of this concept, it was enough for her to understand.

For the creature, on its center head, wore an eye patch.

And the creature, from all eyes of its heads, was crying – a distressing, high squeal that was trying very hard not to be too loud. It didn’t want her to know it was crying; it kept lowering its heads to the floor.

When she reached out to take the creature’s hand, it let out a protesting screech and limped away – with a slouching posture and each head bearing an outstretched neck.

Such bitter regret was engulfing her now. She felt such tenderness for the poor creature’s sadness, and wanted nothing more than to comfort it. But it had wrapped its coats around its shoulders and was gone.

What came next was in a blur, but this she did remember: she had somehow grown older and caught sight of herself in a mirror, a disconcerting moment: she was taller, her face thinner, her features more prominent, a new brightness to her eyes. Then her nutcracker came alive – warm, flesh, his wooden frame touched by the powerful magic of an unseen hand that pushed him from the closed, secret world of toys and into the tangible land of the mortal. He was attractive and young, his eyes and red uniform still an arresting sight. And she was fairly certain they had danced together in this twilight world. She also sensed he was important, like a prince of some kind. Yet, all she kept thinking about was the large rat creature’s wet eyes and lowered head.

Later, there were flurries of snow and ladies dancing in them. She was transformed into some kind of fairy that reigned over every plum cake that was ever made, delivering them like money for teeth as other fairies did.

But it was the memory of the trip to a sultan’s palace that left a significant impression. She simply opened a door and there she was, standing in the midst of a domed, exotic building that was floating in the sea. Had she been here before? Her senses were all on full-alarm: sounds of bird calls she had never heard before, the warm honeyed Eastern sun melting into the palace’s creamy white walls – walls and plaster and ceilings that looked good enough to eat. It felt familiar and sweetening – heady, intoxicating, like eating too much of her father’s favorite brandy jelly late at night. There was a feminine peacock with vibrant shades of lacy blue and green that smelled of pungent flowers sashaying around the palace’s courtyard. The female bird smiled – if a bird may express in such a way – at Klara knowingly and the young girl felt a tug of recognition she could not immediately place.

But why was the man with the long white mustache in the distance staring at her out of the corner of his eye? He was wearing a white turban that was far too large for a man’s head. He was not dark and brooding, but fair skinned, blue-eyed and frenetic in his movements.

The fact that the man’s attendants were politically-neutral mice in this fantastically strange ongoing war (for they did not attack Klara) was also very strange. Wearing flowing robes, fez and turbans, they gathered around her as she sat on the steps of courtyard’s garden to this palace and performed different dances and play acting. There was tea from China, chocolate from Spain, coffee from Arabia…which, one of the lovely mice women whispered to her mentally, was compliments of the Sultan himself, who stood with his hands on his hips overseeing the dancing, head held high in the air, a defiant stance to his body. He was controlling this show, as if every performer was some kind of circus animal, incredibly pleased with himself and his showmanship. 

In a blur, Klara was suddenly standing before the little vermin crowd of spectators.

“Your turn,” she heard him say, along with the sound of a cracking whip.

_My turn?_

And with this, the sinuous sounds of trembling violins and flutes beckoned that it was her turn to perform.

“But I don’t know how.”

The Sultan glared at her.

“Sometimes we don’t, _DO WE?_ ”

_What does that mean?_

The Sultan’s face was becoming more familiar to her now, but she still could not place who he was and he was ever so smug and satisfied as he stared with a fixated, strong steely gaze at her. It occurred to Klara at this moment that she had no idea what she was wearing and wondered what precisely he was staring at. She tried to move her head to look down at her legs but could not. There was a strange paralysis that had over come her. All she could do was what the Sultan told her and all she saw was his face. Then she tried taking her eyes off from his deep-set blue eyes. She couldn’t do that either. She was frozen to the floor…

“Dance…Dance…Dance…”

_Frozen…_

“I don’t know how.”

_…to the floor…_

(A hint of sarcasm): “What, child, you don’t know this one?”

_Where have I heard that before?_

And so she danced as she was bid, because she knew it was her only way forward out of this part of the dream – or whatever this was. If she was to escape, she needed to do as she was told.

“Dance…for me.”

Swaying to the smooth notes of the flutes and the quick ‘tck-tck-tck-tck-tck” of what sounded like a tambourine, without realizing how or why, Klara danced in an Eastern fashion, lifting her legs and kicking them back and kneeling and placing her arms above her head; twirling this way and then that way; using her hips to move the rest her body, feeling a new kind of sensation take over her legs – her stomach – her chest – her shoulders and arms. It made her _want_ to show off for the Sultan and impress him. She tried to conjure images in books of veiled women whose perfect vase-shaped bodies were teasingly displayed underneath those thin veils – faces covered, dark eyes beckoning, wild dark curls in clouds around their faces.

Wait. Or was someone else thinking those thinks for her? She had never seen these things – how did she know them?

The Sultan narrowed his eyes when the dance ended, but they were melancholy, aching – not menacing at all. But it was enough to coax a smile from her - it was nearly like flirting, but it wasn't. She did think he was wonderfully handsome, even if he did seem comically arrogant. In response to her smile, he raised an eyebrow in quiet amazement at her battling eyelashes and curling lips.

_But then she was dancing with her Nutcracker prince again – everything was happening so fast, one moment switching instantly to another, as is common in dreams. They were standing close together and he put his arm around her protectively._

_“I am here,” she heard him say, “to look after you.”_

_“Are you a prince?” she asked._

_He pointed to the white turbaned Sultan, who still stared achingly at Klara._

_“No. He is. He created me to belong to you.”_

_“But…it…how? He’s just a Sultan.”_

_Before he could answer, they were both swept up in a gust of magic that brought them shooting into the air above the palace as all the little mice attendants waved goodbye (which was comical enough)._

_As they floated above, holding hands –_

_Wait – that palace – the dancing figures – the domes – the_

_She was back in the ballroom. The benighted country dance was ending and she was staring at him in hurt confusion: “A thousand sultans would give their hearts to such a beautiful girl. And you are beautiful, Klara and…well, you see, I’ve never met anyone like you…” Now she heard his words through the striking notes of the music. How, she could never tell._

(Anxiously): _Godfather!!_

_She was beginning to tumble down into thick, grey, impenetrable clouds that went on forever. She was falling very, very, very fast. She lost her grip on the Nutcracker prince. He disappeared._

(Sleepily but aware): _Klara –_

(Screaming as she fell): _Godfather, I’m sorry - Oh, please, I didn’t mean to hurt you…_

(Again): _I had to know._

(Calmer, fading into her fall): _I’ve never…met…anyone…like…you…either._

(Regretfully) _I’m not like other people._

_What?_

(Imperatively) I-am-NOT like other people…

(With confidence) _…Neither am I – because I love you._

A sudden jolt – she felt her body slam into the soft mattress of the bed. She bolted upright, her long hair askew as if it had been blown by a strong wind on one side of her face. She was in bed, she had obviously been asleep in that bed, yet she had the inexplicable feeling of needing to catch up with her own body, her own being.

It was as if her cells had been connected by lightening to something or someone else – but she could not understand how. She felt satiated, completed…as if she had just delivered a message of paramount importance or completed some task. She found herself smiling, her heart and chest finding serenity with a calming sigh. With an air of relief, she fell hard back down against her pillow…and drifted off to the sweet nothingness of a child’s slumber.

~~

1 mile away, a man was fast asleep in his third-floor rooms on Hilgermannstrasse, sprawled across his work desk, one arm outstretched and his head resting against it. The pure, clear, unsullied moonlight – that very essence of innocence – was bathing the room in its white shadow through the room’s sizeable windows. Such windows also let in a great deal of the outside during these winter months. Not a cloud in the sky above, only a very full moon and a pulsating wind. The thin, tall man was cold indeed, shivering now and then as he lay unconscious and was fully dressed as he had been for the evening: an antiquated white wig, a peach-colored coat - a costume.  He had not removed the eye patch before falling asleep sitting at his desk. There were no fires lit and the candle in the window had long since been snuffed out before he had left with a full heart of optimism just before 9pm. That nap he took earlier in the afternoon had certainly given him a boost of confidence when he began to question whether actually attending this party would have been such a good idea, considering what he had been feeling of late.

Lenzen was quiet now and the snow had stopped falling. Only peace and unbreakable stillness outside, the wind caressing the stone and wood and metal and barren trees that this little town was made of. But inside these rooms, 20 clocks delicately ticked, jingled, never ceasing in their own voice. It was now deep into the night; the first rays of morning would be arriving soon.

Although he was asleep – he was awake in one sense of consciousness.

And in that wakeful slumber, he too smiled, feeling as though someone had sent electricity to his soul, and the secret door he had long ago learned how to open with his dreams had unlatched easily once he heard her voice on the other side. Satiated, completed – and with a sigh, he drifted back into the certain sleep of a man who has finally found love.

 

~~

The next morning, Klara made certain to go into the ballroom once her light breakfast had given her enough energy to keep going, as for some reason she was exhausted. She felt as though the entire night had been spent running somewhere, not sleeping; but she did not wish to think about anything she remembered and yet, remember she did –

_No, not now. I just need to make sure that it’s still here. Maybe I can…_

The punch bowl was gone. The cups were gone. But the nutcracker was standing at attention on the very same table it had been left.

And it had been repaired! It’s jaw was back to working order again.

Next to it was the handkerchief, neatly folded in a triangle – and on top of that, a small note that was addressed to no one. Blank on the outside. That shouldn't be done. Klara found that disconcerting.

_Maybe he doesn’t want anyone to think it odd he left me a note. Wait, what am I saying? How did he get here??_

The note read, in her Godfather's elegant, flourishing script: “In case he has an accident again.”

~~

Ah well. Back to the present. Memories are like books as well, really, thought Klara. You can spend as much time in them as you wish, but eventually you must go do other things.

With a shake and a stretch, she recalled what she was doing here in her bedroom in the first place: waiting for Maman to come back in. Hmm. _I wonder who that letter was from?_ Oh dear – that's right, the wedding. Her ruby ring caught the light through the window and she was firmly brought back to earth again. Now what was going to happen? How could she convince her that this marriage was a good idea after all, despite her mother's reservations?

 _“Nicht die Schönheit bestimmit, wen wir lieben, sondern die Liebe, wen wir schön finden_.”

Isn’t that what Papi had told her? As for Maman, her nominal saying was simple enough: _“Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut.”_

Klara only wished she put that saying into practice for this one monumental occurrence and recognized its application in this present circumstance.

As if her mother had read her thoughts, she came back into the room. Was it just her imagination or was her mother’s face a little more relaxed now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty! Here you are! As you see, I fudged with the actual ballet a bit and put my own slight twist on it. I hope everyone's alright with that. ;) Hopefully you'll also catch a few references in this chapter.  
> I'm just after the weekend (it's around 11:30pm here as I type this and do last minute proofreading), but you have something yummy to take you through the week! My next chapter is pretty much done as well, so I'll be posting that probably tomorrow if I can.
> 
> Also, the Pinterest page has been updated a bit! I have not created a section for this chapter, as I feel I want to leave a lot of this to one's imagination. But I'll probably change my mind!
> 
> There is lots more to come with this story. Now that we're past the actual Nutcracker scenes, the plot moves on and I know exactly how it will all pan out. ^_^ Music is on its way, so don't give up hope! I'm compiling a more comprehensive playlist that I plan on integrating into the story, along with what I consider a signature pop song that says it all to me (well, ok maybe two of them. ;) ). Enjoy!!!
> 
> **Update** (4/16) - I've done some much-needed proofreading through my story; I've streamlined a few choppy sentences and sculpted things here and there. Keep the feedback coming! 8) I appreciate constructive criticism!


	7. Begging Permission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, let's see what's in that letter after all. :-)  
> **Update**: After I recently read this chapter over again, I noticed some major typos that somehow seemed to have escaped me! :-\ Especially the end: "she had to admit that she could *not* ask for a better husband (at his core, anyway) for her daughter." I left out the "not". /eye roll...Apologies about that! I'll work to make sure it doesn't happen again. ;)

It wasn’t like Klara to be so impertinent. Granted, these past 36 hours were a trial for everyone in her household, but this sulking, this persistent, passionate arguing, this childish digging in of heels – all for an unemployable toy maker who stared at Klara like she was a stout meal after years of starvation – it was simply so unlike the daughter she knew: obedient, dutiful; an affectionate child. A bit bookish, perhaps, and dreamy to the point of distraction from the realities of life, but not to the point of toeing the line for this dangerous fantasy come very, very alive.

It throws the axis of a family’s sanity – or at least the public show of it – off balance.

Such were the thoughts of Mrs. Albert Stahlbaum this early Friday afternoon. In her native France, such scandalous matches, especially in the good society that her own side of the family in Leon had kept, would be thought a little bohemian, but eventually welcomed with a shrug, a toast, smiling faces of approval and a well-attended evening reception. But in northern Germany, in a small river-side town of solemn faces, moral aptitude and dutiful philosophies, “bohemian” wouldn’t begin to describe the sordid adjectives that everyone in their circle would slap on such a match between an older, socially-challenged family acquaintance and their beautiful, book-curious daughter.

The news of Klara’s engagement to her husband’s old friend Pieter Drosselmeyer, a peculiar Dutchman from nowhere in particular and a hazy family background, with a university degree in the Sciences that he wasted to pursue his own preposterous autonomy, cut a deep nerve in Frau. Stahlbaum’s heart with the sharpest blade of conscience. She and Albert had placed their trust in Pieter for the greater part of Klara’s life. He had been another one of Albert’s friends from Wittenberg that enjoyed the warmth of a newly-married couple’s home. When Klara arrived, he stood over the small soft babe at her christening, gazing at her in a haze of delight, was away for nearly ten years doing God knows what in Berlin ( _well, in fact, she did know_ ) and then reappeared to find a child that was as equally fascinated with his clever mechanical creations as he was with her. It was a smitten friendship that began innocently enough. They gave Klara free reign with Pieter as she grew, allowing the two of them to really develop a strong bond as they played and plotted together. Drosselmeyer’s behavior could be erratic or unusual, but she and Albert knew he was – well, a genius. Geniuses are rarely, if ever, like the rest of the mere mortals they walk among. He was singular in his clock-crafting ability, in his animated toy designs. He had been considerably well-known throughout Brandenburg for a while when he first settled in Lenzen, as one family to another told of the extraordinary music boxes, toys and mechanical anything that came out of his shop in their little town. Gradually that died down; children were generally charmed with him, but their parents occasionally found something not quite right and didn't return. A good-looking young man living alone surrounded by toys, half-eaten dinners and eyes that darted around the room in energized obsequiousness when visitors came in - he was just too much for some people.

But Madeline and Albert were different - very different from the rest of his acquaintances, if he had any others. They both accepted his peculiarities and attributed it to his talents. He became, so Frau Stahlbaum thought, like a second father or perhaps more like some sort of older brother for Klara to depend on. They were drawn to one another, “like magnets”, as Albert had thoughtfully muttered once. Then, Klara's mother had been delighted at their unconventional friendship and grateful for the attention he paid to her introverted daughter, a benign gesture behind the walls of family ties. “Blossom” was how she had described Klara’s transformation over her adolescent years. Now that those invisible walls were brought tumbling down by this marriage proposal, she was left gob smacked. But Albert approved of this match.

_“What’s to be done?” he had asked her that morning, after informing her of what Pieter had told him the night before. “Nothing. That’s the answer. They love one another. He’s family and we trust him. I say let them be.”_

_“’Trust’?” she scoffed. “That miscreant? I wouldn’t trust him to take care of my daughter, the fool. And good God, yes, “family”; too close for comfort is what I say. I’m not sure what Fr. Schreiber will say about this – don’t forget the logistics of Pieter’s relationship to us: how exactly are we to look over that?”_

_Her husband simply shrugged and looked distinctly uncomfortable with the question as he gazed down at his shoes under his newspaper._

_“Albert, we should have known. His attentions were getting far too personal with her; scandalously so. The way he stares at her…”_

_“Ach, Maddie, he stares because she’s beautiful, a sight for any man’s sore eyes. Or eye, in his case…” and he gave way to a fit of chuckles. “Ah well – he’s lost one already. And lost so much more in his life besides. You know this. Let his eye feast on what is really his…by right of the heart.”_

What troubled Mrs. Stahlbaum was that she may have been solely to blame for that right.

She remembered that Klara, shy as a dormouse when she first met Drosselmeyer, eventually seemed to love him more than anyone – more than either herself or Albert. Often enough, the girl would become nervous at his advances (as her mother would later call his behavior) and run to her for guidance on how to react or, on the occasions when he made her uncomfortable, permission to avoid or hide from him. For a reason she still could not fathom, she never gave her daughter the safeguard or haven she asked for in those moments and would instead laugh them away, pushing her close to him and waving away with a flutter of her hand any childish quipping on Klara’s part. She clearly remembered that Christmas Eve party when the girl was sixteen, how she begged her mother to make her excuses for her when Drosselmeyer asked her to dance. But, after the astounding, elaborate gift that he had obviously put so much work into and gave her daughter that night – to let her act so ungrateful? Now, holding this letter from that same Drosselmeyer, now her possibly soon-to-be son-in-law, she clearly saw the result of her inaction. Should she feel shame or resentment?  

No matter. It was time to see what he had to say for himself. Maybe, she thought with a glimmer of hope as she hurriedly tore open the seal, this was a reversal of his proposal and he was too ashamed to write Klara, so he was writing to her mother? In his exacting, elegant calligraphy ( _what a dexterous talent for a man so personally disorganized in his daily life_ , she thought), was written the following:

 

                                                                                    _86 Hilgermannstrasse_

_Dec. 25 th, 1884_

_Evening_

_My Dear Madeline,_

_I understand that you may find this letter and the events proceeding it to be very alarming. I beg your pardon for writing but thought it best to communicate my intentions for Klara through the written word rather than calling. I figured you may not be in the best of moods to see my long face this afternoon! And as you well know, I am often better at writing or pantomiming than speaking when I am frightened._

_I’ll get to it, then! I have spoken to Albert already; the blessing has been given, but I would not feel this impending union of two souls to be complete without your own blessing. I know you deeply you love Klara, as I do. I know, too, that I have little to show for myself but a small shop and only a bit in the bank. Did Klara show you the ring? I hope you approve; I made it myself._

_I had thought, after our marriage, of moving my shop to Copenhagen, where I apprenticed and where business is good, but did not want to take her so far away from her family and I did not want to be away from you, either – you are my family as well. I have no desire to go to Berlin, as you well know. However, if you would approve, Klara would like to sell books and share a shop with me. She may have told you of this by now._

_In truth, Madeline, I am not anyone of consequence. I may have been many years ago when I first stepped over your threshold, but life and people have not been kind to me since then. No one except yourselves, and even that rascal Fritz – and of course, Klara. I am not a rich man, but your daughter will never be poor in love or affection from me – you may rest assured of that, Madeline. I will strive to be the husband that such a one as she deserves – though you will agree that she deserves far better than some dizzy chap like me. I will protect her as a sultan of Arabia defends his golden treasures, his coffee and tea; as a General his battalion on the battlefield. And I will care for her as best I can, as well as you have done. I thank God that you have fashioned and raised such a one as she. For I have felt this absence in my own boyhood and would have given any talent I possess for a mother like you._

_But I fear I’m getting the wheel off the track: I beg your permission to marry your daughter, Klara Marie Emilia Stahlbaum. Je suis amoureux de notre Klara!! I ask for your leave to let us set a date. May God bless you ever._

_I am,_

_Your Friend Ever,_

_Pieter Drosselmeyer_

Oh, good God.

Dumbfounded and heavily conflicted, her conscience seemed to be ripped every which way.

First off, his childishness came shining through so much so that it was nearly comic and she shook her head and nearly burst out guffawing: sultans and battalions. Coffee? Tea? What was all that about? Such a boyish man. She shook her head at his lack of maturity and experience. Dreamers. They were both dreamers, Klara and this madman. Nothing could go by without some fantastical fictional reference. Such children…

And what was all this about Klara selling books in a shop?! Her parents had not educated her as well as they had, spending all that money, for her to be a shop girl. And no, Klara hadn’t said a thing about it. And Coppenhagen was not necessarily a bad plan. The question was, why had he not considered such an advantageous change of life-plan before? Why, also, had he not considered Hamburg, only 100 miles or less away? None of it made sense, but that was usually the case with him.

She took a deep, steadying breath to let the more positive feelings seep in. That was easy enough, but her thoughts still raced. She understood that this day would come, when her daughter would leave her own home to make a new one with her married name stamped upon it, but one is never prepared for that day. Not really.

And yet.

Drosselmeyer offered his respect so deferentially and it was having a rather potent effect on her opinion of him.

She did appreciate how he sought her approval for this whole thing in the first place, as well as his warm compliments on raising Klara. To say he had wished for a mother like her? A true compliment. It brought the tiniest crease of a smile to the side of her lips and then without knowing why or realizing what was happening before she could stop it, floods of tears drenched her face as she did her best to stifle her sobs.

He may not have been perfect or graceful or rich or gallant or retain any of the theatrical details a woman looks for in a husband for one’s only daughter. But what he did possess, other than a fierce intelligence and a fetching profile, was sheer, innocent love, which Klara's mother could not now deny. Nothing but a plain, simple and strong love for her daughter. How in the world she was supposed to look past his oddities and into a solid foundation of a future for Klara was something she was still striving to find a solution for. Perhaps, in time, things would work themselves out.

But wait...

_What am I thinking? Klara still knows so little about him._

Would things sort themselves out then? What Frau Staulbaum knew about Herr Drosselmeyer was, admittedly, in the past. There were no repercussions that had lingered into the present, only stubborn memories that had been very difficult to eradicate. She only wanted Klara to understand that no one was perfect, but as her daughter’s heart was so pure, she doubted whether the concept of brokenness had ever crossed her young mind when considering her future husband. Nor, as she could sense from their brief confrontation that morning, did she fully comprehend what marriage was – what it meant to make the mistake she was about to embark upon. For indeed, sprinkle it with sugar or honey or rose petals, for all it was worth, in the end, it was a very ridiculous mistake; at least for a young girl of twenty-one. If only she as her mother could stop this marriage – but with her husband’s approval, maddening though it may be, there really was nothing left to do. Her daughter would soon be addressed as Frau Drosselmeyer – poor, granted, and coupled to an older, eccentric man, but loved deeply and cherished as she ought be.

Well, that was something at least. Love such as this cannot be argued with – and, frustrating as it was, she had to admit that she could not ask for a better husband (at his core, anyway) for her daughter.

As she sauntered through the doorway of her daughter’s room once again, she spied Klara with her hands in her lap, staring out into the snowy white day, daydreaming again.

At the sound of her own skirts whisking the floor, Klara calmly turned back to her mother, who sat down opposite her daughter again.

A deep sigh escaped her.

“Let’s see that ring again, then, Klarissa…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too shabby? Hope not! ;-) Next time: Pieter receives a note of happy news...but will he begin to have doubts about what is to come?


	8. Hearts, Wounds and Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! My apologies for the slightly-later publication date, but this one I needed to tweak a bit. 8)
> 
> We're getting more into Drosselmeyer's background at this point and little by little, memories of the past are surfacing...

Let it be known that the day after Christmas is no friend to the shop keeper - especially for those entrepreneurs of tiny towns who are creators of their own bread and butter in which children play a part. If you are not taking in the returns (hopefully not broken – although that happened often enough) of some chastened child, you are steadily, if not begrudgingly balancing finances, profits and losses, preparing for the next month to come. But you are certainly not selling anything on your shelves, if perchance there is anything left after the rush you endured or rather relished the week before. _Ah, most of us are kept busy with projects of some kind or other to pass the time_ , mused Pieter, busily crafting, sharpening, pouring metals, filing and carving the hardened result, painting wood and attaching bits of this and that in his shop on this day. _And yet_ – a knowing grin – _my own current project shall be a lifetime’s work, I suppose._

_Maybe._

That blinding light of a cloudless day atop a world of white at this wintry time of year was quite welcome coming in through those floor to ceiling windows – even if the floor wasn’t all that far from the ceiling. Pieter Drosselmeyer’s rooms above the only toy shop in Lenzen were cramped and perhaps unkempt (money for a maid was for the social level of the Stahlbaums, though Klara loved to help when she could), but one thing they never lacked for was light. Downstairs, in the main shop, there was far more space, but he spent little time there, even when the shop was open. Staying in one room for seven hours or more a day, waiting for customers, hunched over an account book? No, thank you. He’d rather be upstairs working. In the first few years he settled in Lenzen to be near Klara's family, people began shouting (really shouting) up the stairs for him and despite his best efforts to come down to the shop, he found their impatience bewildering. He could not instantly set down his work and jump up every time someone called his name. He had to finish what he was doing; things often had to be completed. One woman exasperatedly quipped that after he had called down saying he would be right there, she had been waiting for an entire 25 minutes for him to actually appear, though he was sure that wasn’t right. That’s not what his pocket watch had told him. “But that’s always broken!” Klara had reminded him many years ago. Child though she was, her wits were as sharp as his carving knives. It was only after he had received a sharper word (and had nearly come to blows) from one gentleman who complained of waiting for nearly an hour and had traveled “ _all-the-bloody-way_ from Magdeburg” to purchase one of Drosselmeyer’s famous clocks that he had finally decided to concoct a keen bell system that would chime upstairs whenever anyone came in. (“Magdesburg?” Drosselmeyer had asked, innocently enough. “Why didn’t you just go to Berlin, then? It’s practically the same distance,” which was true. Yet, he honestly had not understood the man’s flaring nostrils and funny rapid breathing once he had said this.)

In sum: it was a miracle, said the Commissioner Weber’s wife to him once, that nothing had been stolen from his shop after all that time.

On this relatively peaceful afternoon, there was still much to be done concerning this project of his: the arrival of a Frau Drosselmeyer into his bachelor routine and all the changes that were shortly about to occur. Presents were always his specialty for any major or minor event in the life of someone he loved and his next present for Klara was a music box, with a boy and girl dressed in traditional local garb, standing at a fence keeping watch over little sheep and goats. It wasn’t quite finished yet, as designing and crafting the ring had set him back on the rest of his work before Christmas. One of his favorite tunes from his home country matched the scene and he couldn’t wait to show Klara the final design, but he wanted to get it finished by later that afternoon, as he was preparing for a visit from the very angel herself.

Klara had written him and rushed a note over by one of their young gardener boys, saying that her mother had given her consent to the wedding and that everything was “full-speed ahead!” She sounded deliriously, frightfully happy, even if it was only a three-sentence letter, and ended by saying she would be stopping by before the family’s supper, unless he wanted to join them? He jotted down a quick reply on the back of her letter, declining the invitation by saying he had too much work to do, which was half-true, and gave it back to the boy, who stood staring with transfixed wonder at the gleaming brass watches and clocks around the downstairs shop. “You will tell me if you are ever needin’ an apprentice, won’t you, Sir?” the boy had asked with the slightest glimmer of hope in his eyes before running off with the reply in his pocket. Drosselmeyer had grinned and winked with that relaxed, loving mischievousness he always reserved for children and the boy smiled even more.

Yet, the other half of that truth was a bit more complicated: that the bliss of this past Christmas Eve night, when he had proposed to Klara, had been overpowering – an adrenaline rush of invincibility that was unshakable and had lingered for the past forty-eight hours, but frankly writing the letter to her mother had been a sobering task. Taking stock of his surroundings was enough to lead him into reality: there was, in fact, “only a bit in the bank” which was fine for himself, but had he really given thought as to whether that would last for one more human in his household? No, he was not rich and could not conceive of moving his shop with Klara in tow – there wasn’t any money to do so, even if he wanted to and he dared not ask her parents for any help. The very notion of moving to Copenhagen now felt like a fanciful wish, like transforming into a Duke or Count overnight by clapping his hands and jumping up and down three times. Perhaps then Chancellor von Bismark would come knocking on his door the next morning, cheerfully asking if he would care to become a member of his cabinet?

It was all _that_ incredulous.

He had called himself a “dizzy chap” in his letter – true enough, perhaps. But now, as Drosselmeyer sat at this desk, catching his reflection in the sheet of polished metal out of which he was just about to trim a clock frame, he was astonished he had not thought of himself as what he really was – old. Not ancient, of course. But…well…what else to call it? Old. Ach, or old _er_ , anyway.

Old enough to be her father? Maybe. He was forty-two, exactly twenty-one years older than her. There were enough young men who became fathers at twenty-one. Dear God, that was the last thing he wanted to dwell on right now, he thought, rubbing his temples, a deep sigh escaping him. _No, don't think about it._ There was so little of his own past – his real past – that Klara had knowledge of, despite her careful inquiries of late. He managed to only let in small fragments and they weren’t lies, but they weren’t necessarily the entire story, either.

His eye. He hadn’t told her yet.

_“Godfather, why is your eye covered like that?” she had asked one day at age eleven, sitting on his knee as they rambled on together, trading jokes and teases. To give an answer to a child was done easily enough._

_“Because I’ve been hurt there, so I cover it to protect it.”_

_Such a response was satisfactory. She did not inquire again until…_

_(Age fourteen): “Do you ever take your eye patch off?”_

_“Well, yes, when I wash my face and sometimes when I sleep.”_

_“Is it painful at all? I mean, I hope not. I couldn’t bear to think you’d be hurting, Godfather…” She was serious – and genuine. Such a full heart. Such expressions of care always warmed him._

_“Oh no! Well…that is, once in a while. But it’s a different kind of pain – inside.” And then Fritz skipped into the room to change the mood. Thank God. As soon as Drosselmeyer spoke the words, he knew he had gone a bit too far in his explanation and quickly entertained the both of them with math riddles and puppets before the topic came up again. He sent up a brief, silent prayer that she had never asked how precisely he came to have lost that eye_.

For years, the man took her unwillingness to ask as a sign that such maladies meant nothing to her. How could it, after all they had been through for so long together? And he would have been correct in that assumption. Yet, unsure as he was, he knew the topic would come up soon enough given that circumstances had changed. At the Christmas Eve ball a few days ago, it nearly did, in a casual manner. He explained that it was a childhood accident.

That was not the truth.

Complicated, that one was. But again, he didn’t want to think about that now.

But more than money, or what _could_ have been his station in life that he had admittedly thrown away after leaving university (another pang of guilt to dwell on, another stain on his character) or his age or his lack of an eye or even his past was the one thing he feared most: what everyone would think of Klara for marrying a man like him.

There had been enough gossip in Lenzen surrounding the odd toy maker who was kept “as a pet” by the graciously patient Stahlbaums, who were wealthy enough, so the everyday folk said, to put up with his backwardness and that they did so in order for their own personal entertainment. If that wasn’t enough of an insult to his character, he had been told by some of his more loyal customers of rumors that had spread concerning his affinity for children – which, if it wasn’t shocking, was ridiculous enough that he scoffed with a secret chuckle at such provocative notions. So he spent more time with children than adults. Yes, he did. They were far more polite, awake and understandable than adults, anyway. But attracted to children? Such rubbish. If they only knew how longingly he eyed the womanly figure of the grownup Klara (and what he spent perhaps too much time thinking about when he was alone – how desperately he wanted her. And especially if they knew the truth of his own past) …well, it would put an end to such malicious gossip. He may not have been like other men in many respects of bravery or strength, but a red-blooded male he most definitely was.

No...it was how people would view _Klara_ that worried him – it was the last thing he wanted, to see her precious life scandalized or smeared by joining it to someone like him. Not because of the rumors, but because of who he was…

He knew he was awkward and easily tongue-tied. He knew he had little ability to keep up with normality – chatting to people about the weather; understanding when to say what was appropriate and what wasn’t, which was always so unimaginably difficult; looking at people in the eye (except Klara); keeping his emotions to himself when they were always ready to burst out of his tall, thin frame when the moment overcame him. Not embarrassing people with his whimsical costumes which he had thought might have made him more likeable, but made him look “like an actor,” as one of the Stahlbaum’s friends remarked to him once in a tone of reprimanding, very negative connotation. That was why he kept to himself, mostly – why he preferred working in his shop, very much alone, and churning out his careful work rather than actually being in the world – easier to work out the inner mechanisms of mechanical toys and clocks than work out other people’s expectations of which he found baffling. He had learned long ago that when he did try to work out other's expectations, nothing good often came of it. Klara and her family were the only real exceptions to this.

Which is why, walking home alone that Christmas Eve night five years ago had been so hard on his heart.

~~

It was after 11:30pm that he found himself charging through a starkly cold, bitter black night, propelled by hot anger and the stabbing physical pain of wounded pride that hunched his shoulders in a protective, indignant stance. The night had been so cold, what with the snow, that he had been really very grateful for the carriage that Klara’s parents had sent him to take the presents and music box in dry, undamaged condition. It was one of the deciding factors that helped him keep his promise that night. He had nearly forgone the invitation, his courage faltering at the last minute when the realization of what he was feeling for Klara had sunk in enough. He had nearly skipped that important night – the nutcracker, the dancing, the exchange of glances and smiles and whispers. And what happened after. They wouldn’t have materialized into the fabric of time if he hadn’t of picked up that last glass of strong claret he had sitting on his work desk, swallowed the very last drop of its remnants and told himself, stupidly, to “keep hoping.” Then his courage had leapt up for the challenge.

But now – after playing the kind fool to that spoiled girl! He knew she didn’t like the nutcracker, the way she eyed it up as if he had handed her a baby rattle. The way she pulled away from him constantly all night, acting nervous around him – HIM! He didn’t understand why she was being like this…pushing him away one minute and then pulling him back in again the next. What had he done? Alright, alright, maybe he let their bonding go to his head and granted, she had probably not been aware of the amount of work that went into that musical doll house palace he had built for her, but he was sure that her mother would have told her by now at least; he had told her mother weeks ago what he was planning and my God, her mother could have taught her better manners and no, he didn’t believe for one moment that she ended up really liking the damned nutcracker anyway; she was lying to not embarrass him. Then the whole dancing fiasco – why, WHY had he tried to impress her? WHY had he sputtered out what he felt in that moment? WHY had he once again held his heart out to a girl, blindly and ignorantly suspecting she would keep it? Thinking back, he wasn’t even sure she had heard him: she had been watching his mouth with confusion on her face and her head tilted like a young parakeet learning German. Then just walked away! He should have known better than to have put too much emphasis on her reactions to his gestures. Perhaps he was wasting his time trying to be kind to a senseless child who did not understand how to appreciate what was offered to her. It was at moments like these that he truly wished her parents had exuded more discipline and instruction on her. If only he could have been her parent, her household sovereign. She was like one of those caged animals in a traveling show that could only be trained by the sound of a whip…His thoughts rushed and clambered into another as quickly as he was speed-walking down the snow-covered street.

(He heard a woman call out “Gute Nach, Herr Drossel…” but he could sense that his own conspicuously livid stomping and scowled expression of deep concentration was warding off anyone from approaching him. A few stragglers on their way home from the party practically stumbled out of his way without a word as he swiftly passed them.)

Somehow, no doubt by a Christmas miracle, he didn’t slip once.

He had walked so fast and was so lost in thought that he was more than a little surprised when he arrived home so quickly. Reaching into his pocket, he realized…that his…key to the house…was…missing.

It took him another ten minutes of back tracking his steps through gritted teeth in the arctic air that pricked tears from his eye to find it gleaming in the snow on the sidewalk halfway between his shop and the Stahlbaum’s. _Just one more small disaster on top of this steaming pile of more disasters_ , or something along those lines, was his fuming mental reaction.

But once he had quickly bolted the door, stopped on the landing to breathe in the still air of his shop, and heavily climbed the steps to his dark rooms above, the exhaustion set in. Anger gave way to the kind of cocooned sadness that every wounded soul nestles into at the end of emotional taxation. The darkness was a safe haven, away from people, lights, noises and movement. The only noises he heard at all here on a night like this were the almost indecipherable scratches of mice in the walls that were always finding a way in. Sometimes he shooed them, other time he actually caved in and fed them a bit of cheese from the small cupboard. But they weren’t bothersome. Even Klara could not understand his occasional need for seclusion from too much stimulation, too many people. It was just something else for the townsfolk to misunderstand. And there was plenty enough of that going around already…

_How my head aches…_

He lit the one good candle on his desk that hadn’t been burnt to a nub, but quickly blew it out when he realized there was no need: the moonlight was strong enough tonight and was positioned perfectly to shine enough tender light into the room, so he could find his way in his small apartment. He slipped off his shoes, set down his hat and threw his coat on a chair, but that was all. A strong urge for slumber was overtaking him. No time for readying for bed. He remembered that he ate nothing at the Stahlbaum’s earlier that evening and this memory made him all the hungrier, but he was in no mood for food right now. Besides, he had none in the house. The bed was all he cared to indulge in at the moment.

He didn’t make it. Slumping into the high-backed wooden chair at his desk (carved by him, on which he painted small colorful flowers in the folk art of his native country – no one could ever say he lacked a sense of taste in his surroundings) he bowed his head – half in prayer, half in fatigued resignation.

He was silent in his thoughts for some considerable time, until he was able to form whatever fashion of revelation he could from the tumult of emotions that the night’s events had produced. Out of any defense for his behavior or recriminations towards her own, a small cry went up to Heaven, his blue eye shut now, his thin mouth, like a child’s, quivering. Despite being completely alone, his emotion embarrassed even him.

_Why is this all so difficult?…what is the matter with me, anyway?  
_

Swallowing now, to keep the tears back. Another swallow, then another. He brushed back the strands of his wild wig with one hand, reached back to take it off, then stopped. It was so cold in there – _just keep it on._

_What have I done wrong? God in Heaven, why did You make me like this? How much longer will this happen?_

His cheek was becoming slick with tears, which truly surprised him. 

_I thought you were my friend_ , was what he swore he heard whispering in his ear, like a thought that he had not created himself, yet startlingly audible.

May as well answer it back, as he began to recognize its origin:

_And I thought you were mine…_

 

~~

When Drosselmeyer was a child, he learned how different he really was.

He discovered that he had many talents: the perfected use of a brush and knife, far beyond his young years; taking things apart and putting them back together again without blemish; a high aptitude for numbers; a keen ability to embarrass the adults in his parents’ company with his completely inappropriate, forthright questions; an acute skill at receiving black eyes or worse from the very few playmates he encountered.

But he also found that when his tongue kept his heart from forming the right words, his tongue was loosed in his dreams. And if he loved someone, it was the easiest way to let them know.

His mother had discovered this for herself on several occasions, waking from entire conversations with her usually-silent son while she slept, and when she most carefully shared her “strange dreams” with his father one evening while his father drank his third cup of ale, he beat his mother about the head and chest until she succumbed in a fetal position, blood streaming from her lip, consenting to never speak such “jelly-head fantasies” about her boy again.

_“I told you before – that useless boy may be mine, but he’s not me. I won’t have rivals in his house – not from that retarded scrape from a dung pot.”_

_“Johannes…please…” his mother’s voice was small and choked by pain._

_(A half-screamed tone of disgust): “I swear to the Devil that cotton-limbed idiot will never make a soldier as I once was.”_

Young Pieter watched and listened from under the bed in the next room. He was seven years old.

But the dreams continued.

He could not control them as a child. As he reached something akin to maturity, he found that it was becoming a power that could be switched on and off, like the clasp of a watch that sets it in motion or stops it completely. The only caveat was that the other person in question had to also be under the spell of sleep.

When he was in his twenties, and a young woman had taken his fancy, the same thing occurred, but not with the same power he discovered that Christmas Eve night with Klara.

No. Nothing was (and probably never would) the same as it was with his Klara. _His_ Klara.

Nothing…

~~

**December 25 th, 1879.**

A strong knock at the door. Well, it must have been a lighter tap at first, but now it was practically thundering.

“Herr Drosselmeyer?"

Awake now. _Damn it, who could be needing me on Christmas morning? If it’s another parent wanting an exchange, I’m not answering…_

Still garbed in his 18th century costume, frazzled wig still on his head, it took him several moments to really rouse himself out of his chilled slumber before setting off down the stairs to the front door, as he thought the young woman's voice sounded faintly familiar.

There, cloaked but shivering and holding two parcels was Anna, the Stahlbaum’s maid. She had bags under her glassy grey eyes, looking much older than her twenty-three years. A servant’s work is always a reliable cure for stout-hearted youth and vitality.

“Oh, I’m…I’m so sorry to have woken you, Herr Drosselmeyer.” She did not seem fazed by his appearance one bit – she knew enough of his odd ways – but did appear nervous. He looked at her blankly, still climbing out of the deep chasm of sleep. “But I was instructed to deliver this pflaumenkuchen to you for breakfast this morning; with compliments of Frau Stahlbaum.” She bobbed a square box in her gloved hands, tied with string.

He took it from her, blinking with a slight nod of approval.

“And then…well…um…there’s this,” and she held out something tall and stiff wrapped in a kitchen towel. The towel dropped away onto the snow as she placed the object in his hands. Ah yes, the nutcracker. It looked spectacularly brazen and almost frightening with its red paint against the white of the snow, like a soldier-gnome freshly hopped out of the forest into the town square. Except it was injured and swathed in a dainty handkerchief from some battle.

A pang of remembrance flooded his conscience in milliseconds. Fritz, the sword, the broken jaw, the kiss, his comments as they danced…his stomach began feeling queasy at the thought...

“You…forgot…to take this last night. I beg your pardon, Sir.” And with this she gave a wobbly, slight curtsy, which he found so alien – a house maid giving him, a tradesman, such deference –  he did not know how to process it. He bowed slightly, hesitatingly at the waist in return.

“I – oh I am sorry, Sir. I…I don’t mean to be meddling in the affairs of…well, I thought you may want it this morning.”

He looked at her, baffled.

“Why? I…I mean, how did _you_ know, Anna?”

She lowered her voice an octave or so. “I saw Miss Klara was most upset last night about it. She didn’t like it when you left, Sir.” She kept her eyes fixed on the ground now, studying the fine details of the wood steps in front of her. “When I went in this morning to light the fires in her room, she was holding it in her arms like a doll, Sir. It was all so strange! You see, Marta was up putting the last of everything away after the party and…well, she said she saw Klara go down and pick up the doll – “

“It’s a nutcracker, actually,” and he chuckled slightly, rapt in what he was being told. Hearing about Klara’s emotional state was like a bolt of lightning coffee. He was awake now.

“Oh, yes, beg your pardon, Sir.” Another curtsy. Oh, Lord. “She picked up the _nutcracker_ and carried it upstairs – all with her eyes closed – or at least barely open! We think she was sleep walking, Sir. She seemed in a dream. She’s done it in the past, but rarely, you know. So I took it out of her hand as she lay in bed this morning – I was so scared of waking her! – and brought it to you. I think you had said you were going to mend it…”

“I see. Yes, thank you, Anna,” rubbing his eye into alertness. He had work to do. “Look, um…come in, if you wish and I’ll mend it now. It will take me only a few minutes.”

“Oh no, but thank you! I’d much rather wait outside,” with a wave of her hand.

“Why? It’s freezing out here.” And when he said this, he realized he was not dressed for standing in the cold morning air. At all. He backed into the door.

She looked at him, incredulous. “I’m a servant.”

“And what am I?” he shrugged. “We all are, in the end. To these grand folks, anyway.”

She grinned ever so slightly and wrapped her shawls around her tightly.

“Come. Have a slice of this plum cake while you wait for all I care!”

 _If there was one thing that could said about crazy Herr Drosselmeyer_ , thought Anna, _he never lacked kindness for our lot._

He glued the broken jaw, wrote a small note to Klara and forgot to address it in his haste and folded his handkerchief. “Make sure you place it next to the nutcracker,” he said. “Put it back where it was before. She’ll remember it being left there.”

 

~~

Alright, enough daydreaming for now.

Klara was to arrive any minute and there should be cleaning up to do. Not that she cared about such small matters, but at least a tiny bit of effort should be put forth. She was going to be living with him by next summer, if their plans stayed on track; he can’t have her thinking the place will be a mess all the time – and the music box was done. He turned the small switch on the front of the box and a danceable melody played. The little animals reeled around from left to right. His thin lips pursed in concentration as he studied it from every angle.

“Brilliant. Maybe this will soften the blow,” he spoke aloud to no one in particular.

_I may not have a fiancé by this afternoon after I tell her..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you are! Hoping you enjoyed this one...
> 
> **The Pinterest page has been updated** (it's always being updated, lol): https://www.pinterest.com/faith_hope_love2014/the-toymakers-wife/  
> **The YouTube channel is up!!**: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLeotpNxZkapfBRlOEEgQaq3KY70wgwtWE
> 
> (PS: if the YouTube channel doesn't work for some reason, let me know)...
> 
> I chose Sabrina Carpenter's "On Purpose" as the theme song of Pieter and Klara's love story; to me, it captures how Klara feels about their relationship from her adult perspective. Carpenter's other song "Why", while more modern in its setting and words, also typifies their relationship to me in a way, although it's a bit of a stretch. ;) 
> 
> The traditional piece "Five Sheep, Four Goats" features in chapter 10 beautifully. I hope you enjoy listening to it. More of that to come as the story progresses!
> 
> Next time: a brief conversation between mother and daughter; Klara pays a visit to Pieter, but it's not what she expected...


	9. Blessings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO ALL!! My apologies for being later than normal on this chapter. Now that summer is rolling along, I may be looking at a two week (or a bit more) wait between chapters. 
> 
> Anyway, I still hope all of you are out there, invisible (well, mostly! ;-) ) readers. I will not keep the next chapter away for too long and will try to publish it in a shorter time span, despite what I just said above!
> 
> Enjoy!

Klara held her left hand out to her mother, haltingly at first – the red oval glass of the imitation ruby glistening like solid fire, surrounded by a regal gold frame. Frau Stahlbaum studied it with quasi-attention, the slight wrinkle in her forehead, rounded shoulders and the fact that she was absentmindedly biting the inside of her cheek belying her supposed calm composure. Yes, Klara’s mother appeared a bit more relaxed, yet she somehow still looked as troubled as she did before; only now she simply seemed resigned and confident in her fate: half of a lifetime of ulcer-inducing worry, thanks to this wedding. This did not escape her daughter’s notice.

“Are…are you alright, Maman?”

“And he made that?” her mother asked tersely, eyes fixed on the ring, no answer to her daughter’s inquiry. Klara knew her mother well, but she was finding it increasing difficult to read her emotions. Despite the surprise on this particular morning of Klara’s declaration of love for her own Godfather (whom she wished to marry and who had indeed been so scandalously, ostentatiously bold as to actually propose marriage to her, his own Goddaughter, twenty-one years his junior, without as much of an after-thought to her parents or anyone else) well, despite all of this, Klara did not see how it could be so badly taken by her mother – of all people, the one other woman in the world who thought well of him.

“Yes,” Klara replied, a slight irritation in her voice, “it’s red glass and he made the gold from – “

She stopped as her mother began shaking her head, first in little strokes than in longer dramatic tosses.

“Klara Marie!” (This was half-shouted exasperatedly. A short pause - then she fixed her eyes squarely on her daughter’s face): “An engagement ring is supposed to be a diamond or some real stone, child. No decent-thinking woman would accept something hobbledy-dobble like this! Good God, and the gold isn’t even real?”

“He can’t afford anything else, Maman. This is made from the heart – you of all people - can't you see this!” As soon as the words “can’t afford" had escaped her lips, she knew she had made a mistake.

“Pshhh! Of course he can’t afford it – probably won’t be able to sustain the rent once _you_ move in, let alone a ring; fake gold, just like his façade stories.”

That did it.

Within seconds, the older woman's mood had shifted from benign to even more hostile than before she left the room. This wasn’t what Klara had been expecting. Her mother had walked in looking so soothed and calm. Now she was acting up over something as shallow and avaricious as the quality of the engagement ring and it hurt Klara deeply. How could something like jewelry genuinely reflect the inner-thoughts or deep love of a man for a woman? How could a tangible object visually surmise a lifetime of emotion? Klara did not, could not see how. _Is this the way all women are_ , she thought? Are we all expected to be so cold and grasping, obsessed with material things? Tears welled and it all became too much. Her hands flung up to her eyes as she wept.

“Maman, please! Please…please don’t do this!”

If she had been watching her mother, she would have detected a thin shade of shame cross her face. Frau Stahlbaum certainly wasn’t trying to hurt her daughter, but she was still trying to come to terms with the danger (or so the good woman surmised) that lurked behind the young girl’s choice in a husband.

“Oh mon petit, ma jolie, je suis desole…” and began giving her apologies in French, reaching over to stroke her daughter’s arms lovingly. “I’m sorry, Klarissa…I’m…I’m just overwhelmed by all of this.”

The girl was silent. She flicked away her tears and steadied her breath.

“It is a fetching ring, I admit,” said her mother, after a long pause, in the most surrendering tone she could muster. “I wonder he didn’t choose green glass to match your eyes,” and gave a soft, short chortle.

“Who was the letter from, Maman?”

“From Pieter, if you must know…” and she tucked the letter which she was still holding into the pocket of her voluminous skirt.

Frau Stahlbaum saw her daughter’s eyes widen ever so slightly and shift in her chair where she sat in front of her dressing table. With her long hair in tumbled curls down her shoulder, the bright, bold green and red tartan of her silk dress and large green eyes, she was the very essence of lovely lightness and promise and rosebuds waiting to bloom. Her fear was that this preposterous project of becoming the wife of Pieter Drosselmeyer (oh, the thought still made her internally wince) would scrub all of that youthful delicacy right off of her.

“And?" Klara asked. "What did he say?” Now alarm was beginning to settle into Klara’s mind. Only a little while ago, her own doubts were surfacing, thanks to her mother, even if she meant well. Now she worried that perhaps Pieter was having the same doubts, just in male form. He had said nothing about writing her mother. “Did he beg you for money? Apologize for his age? Call it all off, then? Is that it!?”

Frau Stalbaum’s eyes shifted down to the floor between them. “He said that he loves you very much and thinks I’ve been a wonderful mother to you – and wishes he had had a mother like me.”

A barely audible sigh of relief. She felt her hopes begin to float healthily again. “I thought he did have a mother like you?”

“He did, but she died when he was quite young. Hadn’t he told you?”

Klara had forgotten, though it wasn't surprising that she had. He rarely spoke of his family to her at all. He had mentioned once that his parents were not rich and that his father had been in the army before eking out a living as a cabinet maker. Yet, she distinctly remembered him scolding her once about not arguing so with her own mother, when she was about twelve.

_“Treat your mother with respect, Klara! You are merely a child yet, not a woman. Reign in your tongue.” His tone was terse, mildly foreboding. He was bent over Klara, who was sulking on a bench by the river while out on a family picnic on a bright, sparkling clear summer day. Her parents, Fritz, the children’s tutor and two servants (and of course Drosselmeyer had naturally been invited) made up the small gathering on the riverbank. His hands clasped behind his back, his slightly long hair slicked back, his eyes half-closed in rumination at his Goddaughter’s verbal antics, the two of them were quite separated from everyone else as Klara had run as far as she could down the bank. He had walked after her, rather slowly.  
_

_It was an isolated incident, this berating from her Godfather. Rarely did he ever speak harshly to her and rarer still did he correct her._

_“But…but,” (on the verge of angry hot tears, pointing at her mother, who was busy cleaning Fritz’s collar stained with raspberry juice) “Maman is saying tha-“_

_“ Klara. I don’t care. She is your mother and you must obey her; she will always know what is best for you.” He sat down next to her. “I wish I had a mother when I was your age. And some children don’t, you know. So treat your mother with kindness while she lives. Mine did not, you see. I was barely nine when I saw her for the last time.”_

_That grabbed her attention._

_“If you please, Sir, did she die?”_

_His expression had softened now, but suddenly the corner of his mouth began to twitch and his eye narrowed kindly - that smiling eye that puffed up under the lashes. He gazed out at the river before them. “Eh…yes, she died. That’s usually what happens when someone ceases to live.”_

_Klara let out a self-deprecating gasp of a light laugh, sheepishly grinning.  
_

_“And what is this ‘Sir’? Godfather will suffice, my dear Madame.” And with that, they were on a kick about salutations and put on an improv play about the foibles of the wrong address to one’s neighbor. One joke always, always led to another. And he knew by now how it often broke up the ice of a deep conversation between them._

“Yes…yes he did tell me.”

“Look, Klarissa,” and her mother leaned forward and took both her daughter’s hands in hers; the warmth of her brown eyes brought a calming exhalation of breath from Klara. Frau Stahlbaum was very solemn now in her tone, but not cruel. “I do love Pieter; please do not mistake that. I’ve known him longer than you’ve been breathing, and I do, truly do see how much this man loves you, mon petit. You’ve always been something so unique and precious to him, that I’ve seen it with my own eyes. But I have many qualms about you running off with him and rightly so. I’ve always thought well of him, both your father and I, and we both want you to be so happy, but…I just want you to think about what it is you are getting into.”

“Such as?”

“Well, come now, there is quite a lot to think about. You're going to be a widow much earlier in your life than most, for one thing. Who will look after you then?”

“Ah, but even some young men do die early, Maman, so that shouldn’t be a reason to worry...”

 _So naive_ , thought her mother.

“Yes, but he’s not young, Klara. He’s twenty years older. Now hear me out, please, because after all this back and forth, I confess I’m becoming quite tired and want this settled once and for all: Pieter isn’t like other people. You know this. He will need help from you in so many ways that most other men would not require. There is so much Pieter lacks in everyday life and you’ll be expected to lead him in that: making excuses for his constant absence or for something odd he said to a neighbor; remembering where he put something down in the house, because _he_ never remembers; keeping appointments, because he always forgets; serving as the sole conversationalist with the folk in his shop, because he doesn’t like to. You see how all of these nosy town rats talk about him, poking fun at him at the way he dresses, talks, works?…And speaking of work, you know he labors in that shop of his all hours of the night. Are you ready for that? The noise will keep you up, I’m telling you now. You will live quite alone with yourself, Klarissa, apart from your father and I, and your brother, for what he's worth. Your husband will want to be alone in his shop when all you wish to do is take the baby for a stroll along the river and he won’t join you; he’ll always have too much work to do. You will care for your own child alone; you won’t be able to afford a servant or wet nurse to help you and Pieter loves children, yes, but having and caring for one’s own is quite another thing.”

“What is your point in all of this, please?” Klara’s lower lip was quivering once again as she went cold, feeling confusion take over where before there was only promise. The thought of Pieter and babies and children and Christmas Eve and the tender look on his face as he gave each child their toys...

“I mean that he’s practically a child himself - that is my point. I simply worry for your own sanity…wondering what might have been if you married some man closer to your own age, without such peculiarities as his to deal with.” A pause. “I’ll tell you now – you’ll have a mountain full of heartache, being married to that man.”

“Maman…” Klara matched her mother with her own gravity – or what passes for it in the mind of a passionate twenty-one-year-old. “Is he not at least faithful? Can’t you give him that benefit? Not once has he ever missed a Sunday with us at church – except for when he’s sick, which is never, it seems. And don’t you remember how he, Papi and Fr. Schreiber talked about order and science and creation at dinner last week? He said 'God is the true clockmaker; Christ is the gear train; the Sacred Spirit is the mainspring and we are balance wheel.’ Or something like that. Do you remember? That's what he said. What I’m saying is the man is not some dunce as you suppose him…”

“I’m not saying he’s a dunce,” replied her mother calmly. “I’m saying he’s challenged – “

“…it’s the same thing!”

Her mother sighed deeply and slowly, gazing past Klara, looking utterly exhausted. But Klara knew that if she was going to get anywhere, and if evidence of Pieter’s love for her wasn’t enough, the most she could do was place his character before her mother as proof.

She continued: “He’s a strong, upright man. And decent. That’s all I’m saying,” and she waved her hands about in a finishing gesture. “I’d rather have a weird but steady man like Pieter than all of the normal, rich, gregarious, boring, dull, uncouth, conniving, greedy men in all of Germany. A man who has known me nearly my whole life and loves me as his own; who goes out of his way to bring a smile to my face at any moment, even if it costs him his own reputation; a man who puts – puts –“ and here tears began to fall silently, “...puts so much faith in me, in my loving him back. There’s no walking away from him now.This is how I will keep him with me always, with this ring. I can’t lose him. I won’t. He's the only one. I know you think I’m so young and know nothing of the world, but I do understand love when I feel it. If it feels like your love for me, or Papi’s, I know it must be real.”

“Well…” her mother rubbed her temple, blinking through tiredness, her posture slouched as she studied the pattern of the carpet again. But she was smiling slightly.

“So…do we have your blessing?”

Strangely, her mother did not pause or take half of a breath before answering her.

“Yes, my love. I never had a choice but to say yes. Marry your toy maker, Frau Drosselmeyer,” and winked at her, albeit with wearily. “And I will tell him I said so. I’ll write him this afternoon.”

FINALLY!!

Klara’s heart felt light like never before and she flew to her mother’s arms, kissing her cheek and practically drooling from so much smiling.

“Can I ask him for dinner tonight?”

“Of course, I think we can h – “

“Then I’ll write him and ask him now! Thank you!”

Her mother smiled, faintly, and weakly nodded her approval.

~~

But it was not long after she had sent the note to Pieter that something her mother had said came back to haunt her.

What did she mean, “his façade stories”? She had heard her say something similar earlier in the morning but could not now recall what.

Her newfound boldness, thanks to her mother’s blessing, gave her the strength to walk downstairs and saunter into the small, but bright conservatory, where both her father and mother were sitting surrounded by the herbs, flowers and plants that kept thriving through the winter. There sat Frau Stahlbaum, sipping brandy thoughtfully, holding her forehead in her hand, eyes closed. Her father was staring at her mother, as if anticipating what his wife was about to say. He looked concerned.

But her father shook himself from his pensive waiting and seemed slightly startled at his daughter’s appearance, suddenly putting on an artificial smile at her entrance. Her mother stayed perfectly still.

“Mein schtaz! My own bride-to-be,” and he got up, not easily at first (as he was no longer the thin man he once was) and wrapped his arms around her. “Maman has told me she’s given her own blessing and now there’s a wedding to plan!” He spoke softly, almost fearfully, as if he were afraid that Klara was made of glass and the tremor of his voice could break her into a million tiny shards of dashed dreams.

“Papi, um…well, both of you, that is...um…well, look: is there something I need to know about Pieter?”

Her mother still didn’t move, but did open her eyes, still cradling her forehead. Her father’s own green eyes darted from her mother to herself, waiting for his wife’s approval to respond.

“Something?” he piped out in reedy whistle.

“You spoke of some kind of deception on Pieter’s part – to me,” said Klara to her mother. “Does this have to do with his eye or...?”

The innocence, the unaffected nature of the girl’s inquiry took her parents quite by surprise. But their response was not quite what she had expected.

Frau Stahlbaum only looked back over her shoulder at Klara blankly. Maybe it was the reflection of the sun on the fallen snow outside, but her mother’s face suddenly appeared quite ashen. Her father was still standing there with his arms around her but was very still; not breathing. He wasn’t looking at anyone in particular. He seemed to be carefully examining the tree limbs outside, bare and glistening with snow in the distance against the blue sky.

“Albert?” Her mother shifted her glance to her father.

Her father met her mother’s gaze, then turned them to her own, and released her from his embrace.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself, Klarissa?” He spoke gently and kindly, but was a bit unsteady in his manner. “I’m sure there’s no deception – only misunderstanding.” She thought she saw her mother quickly throw back the last of the brandy in her glass. “You’re to be a bride now! Your affairs are your own.”

Later that afternoon, as she was being driven to Drosselmeyer’s rooms to keep her promise of their appointment, her father’s words lingered in her ears. She was finally beginning to feel the weight of precisely what those words meant: twenty-one and in control of her own affairs. But they weren’t only hers.

The driver would wait (no lady in good standing, even an engaged one, could be seen entering a man's home completely alone), so she could not stay entirely too long; hers was not the sort of family to keep a horse and man out in the cold for longer than twenty minutes at their own leisure. She stood at Drosselmeyer's door, the chill of the late afternoon wind nipping at her face and neck, not one cloud in the sky. As she raised her hand to pull the bell, the door opened unexpectedly and out he stepped, head down and deep in thought, carrying a large basket to fetch more wood for the fire. He was wearing the tan apron he often put on when he worked, but he hadn’t bothered to put on a coat. No white wig today – only his auburn-dark molasses hair swept back from his face. That perfect face of his. That guiltless face that Klara loved so well – in that brief millisecond before he nearly collided with her, she wanted nothing more than to reach out and press her lips to his soft cheek.

“Yaahhhaaaa! Klara! You did give me a fright! Well, come in then."

It was not lost on Klara that he was unusually, uncharacteristically nervous.

 

 

~~

 

 

                                                                                 _4 Trebenstrasse_

_Dec. 26 th, 1884_

_Afternoon_

_Dearest Pieter,_

_Your letter came this morning, though I see you wrote it last night. I fear your anxiety about my feelings must have kept you from sending it directly, but no matter. Please be comforted in the knowledge that you will never need fear me in any way from this day forward._

_I heartily accept your offer of marriage to our Klara – I call her “ours”, as I know her heart belongs to us both, though she will very soon be yours completely, body and soul. I hope to see you two married very soon – is May a rush? Perhaps! But I will leave that to the both of you._

_Love her, then, but remember she is still young and has seen – and experienced – far less of the world than either you or I. She sees no wrong in anyone, especially you, whom she has clung to throughout these tender years. Please, remember this, Pieter._

_I love you dearly, as you know – now more so, as my son-in-law. God bless you both and I give you my blessing in all its capacity and fairness._

_Avec Tout Mon Amour,_

_Madeline_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok! Be sure to give me your feedback; it's always appreciated and I relish constructive criticism or lavish praise, so whatever you've got, bring it on. ;) 
> 
> Youtube Channel (updated with one extra video - an example (a silly one but the best one I could find) of a Schottish. This is the kind of "one two three - hop" dance that Klara remembers dancing with Pieter as a young girl, before she was sixteen. https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLeotpNxZkapfBRlOEEgQaq3KY70wgwtWE
> 
> Once the Pinterest page has been updated a bit more, I shall post it in the comments here. :-) 
> 
> Next time - the conversation we've been waiting for between Klara and Pieter. But will this solve any mysteries or simply deepen them?


	10. Five Sheep, Four Goats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I'm back! 8)
> 
> Klara and Pieter finally meet for a short chat, the first time they've seen each other since he proposed (which will be told in a flashback in Chapter 11). But as expected, something's not quite right...

“I hope I’m not too late!” Klara asked.

“Oh no, not in the least.” He didn’t move. Just smiled and stared as he always did whenever she came into being before his vision. That same sort of smile he had given her at the ball when she was sixteen: wide-eyed and rapt, with a hint of nervousness and confusion steeped in joy. She stayed still and kept silent, enjoying his eyes on her, milking it for what it was worth, for every moment of time with him. Perhaps at sixteen, his eye on her – the other covered in that dark patch that fascinated her, despite how comfortable she was with it –  may have made her flinch with the stinging newness of emotion that she was unaccustomed to, but time, with its minutes, months, hours, days, weeks and seasons; with a deep, unshakeable love, can grow the size of one’s heart like nothing else. A collection of important moments, gestures shared, a careless caress here, a hand placed just so, a shared laugh there, tears and anger and exhilaration and settled warmth again, all rushing and building up in the spirit, nurturing love, keeping its own heart beating healthily, strongly. These are the things no contraption at the time could record or capture, only her own memory. While eventually buried under the soil of passing years and more pressing matters, Klara would, in her old age, fondly remember how she and her Godfather grew so close – close enough for a literal marriage of souls to take place. The clocks in Pieter’s shop ticked-tocked through everything that came before, at this time and after. They were ceaseless, much like his love for her.

But now, on this December afternoon, the uneasiness (restraint, perhaps; it was something she could not put her finger on) of Pieter’s mannerisms was beginning to take her notice again. For one thing, why was he just standing there? Why hadn't he kissed her or at least hugged her or even shaken her hand? They hadn't seen one another since Christmas Eve; the actual day of Christmas he spent alone, something her parents had remarked on with a great deal of worry. But there was nothing wrong: the newly engaged couple had decided it was best to give it a day before making any announcements.

Granted, he was nervous – he was always nervous, it seemed; that was his way – yet this afternoon something was not quite right. While he would normally take her hand and at least shake it in the most innocuous and amiable of gestures, at the moment he was standing quite apart from her, keeping a physical distance between them. _That_ escaped Klara’s notice at first, as it was so uncharacteristic as to be imperceptible to her eyes. But soon the chill of a winter's afternoon took over, despite the sunshine, and something had to be done.

“Should…we…” and she gestured to the door.

“Oh, yes, well – uh – come in. I was just getting more wood, but that can wait and…ah! I see you brought something for me.”

She revealed the package from her muff. “For us! Leftover pork from lunch we could share; I thought you may want a bit for dinner, since you’re not coming tonight.”

“Ah no, I have, uh……” His voice trailed off as she followed him in. Again, not unusual.

She looked back at the driver perched on the carriage behind her, wrapped up against the frigid air, squinting in the sunlight at his horses’ ears.

“I should only be a short moment, Rolf.” He nodded, peered into the doorway after Pieter and then glared back at her.

 _Oh fine_ , she thought, _even the driver my family rents harbors spite for my Godfather now._

_Wait…”my Godfather”?  Oh, no, Klara…he has a new name now, stupid girl…_

 

~~

It could perhaps be said that it was a testament to Klara’s singular affection for her Godfather – now to be her fiancé – that the state of his rooms above the shop did not repulse her, nor so disturb her feminine sensibilities that she ran away screaming. He had told himself he would straighten up for this afternoon’s visit, but not much was done that day: the floor had indeed been swept and he had closed up the mouse holes to ensure his furry visitors did not make an appearance, and he was trying to warm the room, but nothing else was actually “cleaned”.

The toy shop below always neat and prim as could be expected, since he was only there when customers came in, so rarely was anything touched or moved unless necessary. The same could not be said for his living quarters and work shop. For outsiders, the work room was considered a magician’s lair, where black magic was spun and conjured into dancing, moving, living toys, clocks of perfection – or beautiful ruby glass rings. The truth was that what many townspeople and children thought of as an enchanted room of sorcery was, in fact, just the personal space of a bachelor.

Though the main room was not large, the littered work table in front of the window only made it seem smaller. On this particular afternoon, a half-eaten boule of bread was nestled on his desk like a still-life painting next to a music box with a diminutive ink blue mechanical bird that popped up, tweedled a few sweet notes while spinning in place, flapping its tiny wings and moving its even tinier beak and then just as quickly disappeared back into the box. On the underside of the lid, Drosselmeyer had painted a pretty bouquet of flowers. The intricacy of the animated movement crafted with such mechanical precision and coupled with the artisan skill of the delicate painting was enough to impress anyone, even if it _was_ surrounded by a disturbing amount of bread crumbs.

Walk up the stairs and there you were accosted by the metallic scent of chemicals and paint that occasionally collided with the foul post-burn of tallow candles, though thankfully there were few of those, mixed with the musty, dry, strangely comforting aroma of shaved wood. On the far right were shelves where dolls in bright orange and blue gowns and toys already made stood or sat in their finery, completed and patiently waiting to be sent out into the world from their maker. Below the shelves, on the other work bench built into the wall, Drosselmeyer let fall anything that required a place to fall: sketches of toys yet to come; a soiled plate from last night’s dinner with the remnants scattered all around; half-made toys he had abandoned in favor of something else; metal tools on beds of wood shavings; the odd empty bottle next to a crescent moon with a human face he had carved out of pine wood. A telescope was perched at the window in the back of the room, though it was rarely used, at least recently. He had already attempted to find the Stahlbaum’s home with it many years ago not long after he first arrived in Lenzen, when on a summer’s night after a little too much Riesling and feeling unusually lonely and sorry for himself, he had hoped against hopes that he would be able to spy upon the whole household, servants and all and keep a watch from afar. Finally he had found a way to be a true member of the family! Even when he had to eventually go home after the children were put to bed, Albert and Madeline yawning their silent pleads that it was about time for him to trip on home to his own bed. He would watch them without disturbing them – how harmless could this be? What a keen plan!

Yet all he did see was the blank beige wall of the butcher’s house at the end of the street that curved just enough to block his view of Trebenstrasse a mile away. An unsteady hand resulted in a loss of balance and nearly falling out the open window, but thankfully sent him flat on his back. As he lay there, too drunk to get up (and so slept the night in just that position), he had decided that perhaps he’d better stick to star gazing.

On the left side of the room stood the dusty hutch where an entire loaf of bread sat next to a domed glass clock, as if the edible object were on display along with a few books. Cheese and turnips were strewn along a plate; an automaton gold figure of a smiling Chinese fortune teller lifted cups in his hands to reveal a ball, now a dice. But throughout the room was clock upon clock upon clock, filling the ears with humming waves of “chk-chk”.

A fire was lit in the corner of the room, just a small chimney that had seen better days and it barely kept the upstairs warm enough, though he never seemed to mind this. " _I’m a Northerner,”_   he often remarked whenever anyone may have found their way into this sacred, secret realm. “ _The Danish climate already froze my blood!”_

But it hadn’t frozen Klara’s and she walked right over to the small fireplace, its current fire dying a slow death. She followed behind Pieter as he absentmindedly set the wood basket down before realizing it was empty.

“Oh, I nearly forgot; let me fetch some wood for you after all…”

“No need on my account!” piped Klara cheerily, trying desperately not to be a nuisance. “I’m really fine as long as I am wrapped up like this and can’t stay long, you know. Let’s share some of this now,” and she unwrapped the leftover peppered pork shoulder and sat herself down at his desk. “Besides, we have so much to talk about!”

At these words, Pieter ran his hand through this hair and looked lost, mouth pinched awkwardly to one side, not moving, eye grazing the wooden floor – a somber tone of tender, child-like melancholy at something innocuous; as when you tell a four-year-old that he cannot adopt the five crickets he found in the grass outside and keep them as pets in his bed. She remembered him looking like that many years ago at the Christmas Eve ball when she looked askance at his gift of the Nutcracker. Now the time struck half past three and he reached into his pocket to take out his gold watch, put it to his ear, give it a shake and put it back in his pocket again, mechanically – as he always did.

“Is all well?” she asked him, frozen in her movement and a quizzical, naïve lilt in her tone.

 _May as well get this over with_ , he thought to himself, seeing her looking so comfortable and at home at his desk, with her full mouth in a little pout (he didn’t have the courage at the moment to walk over and kiss those inviting lips, though he wanted nothing more than to do so), her large green eyes seeming even larger at this moment, and her shoulders ensconced in a fetching green jacket that he couldn’t draw his eye away from. In his delight of the one eye he possessed, it would be terrible to spoil the moment but he knew he must. She was expecting to talk of happiness and bright futures and deep breaths and happy weddings with happy endings and ribbons tied around pretty presents of security…while _he_ wanted to throw a wrench into it and cut the ribbons to pieces. Then without warning, he suddenly remembered what he had been working on all afternoon: presents…ribbons go on boxes…the music box.

_Maybe a gift will distract her…_

Meanwhile, a softly rising panic was building in Klara’s chest. He wasn't responding. He was just staring at her, looking panicked himself. Her eyes narrowed in on his face. He had barely looked at her since she arrived and now he was acting like _this_?

“Godfather, what is it? Has something happened? I don’t understand!”

_Oh. Good. God, she’s still calling me that. _

He couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing and for more than a few moments, just stood dumbfounded. Her innocent expression was all the more irritating, despite how he loved that precious face. But instead of answering, his heart racing from anxiety, he moved on impulse: in one graceful stride of three steps, he walked to her, bent down and cupped her cheek in his hand and bashfully placed the softest of kisses on her lips. He could feel her intake of breath, a mixture of surprise and pleasure. Without a moment’s hesitation, she threw her arms around his shoulders as he felt her body begin to relax, taking in his kiss and gently pulling him toward her while his hand fell eagerly down her to waist – his long, hooked nose tickling her cheek. It was a newfound annoyance/pleasure that Klara had discovered only a matter of days ago when they first kissed - but it was not unwelcome.

When they reluctantly parted, he still retained that frightened look he had displayed earlier but he made his best effort to seem cheerful.

“Never mind love,” he mumbled, “I have something for you. Here…”

He took her hand in excitement and led her to the fireplace, where he sat her down on the only other wooden chair in the room, hurriedly taking his apron off and bundling it up as a cushion for her back, she laughing at his antics as he fussed.

Bewildered by his strange mood of highs and lows within moments, and too nervous to say anything just yet, she waited as he withdrew into his sleeping quarters (a tiny closet of a room just big enough for a cot, a washstand and a shelf) and returned a moment later holding a box covered with one of his familiar, lace-lined handkerchiefs, which didn’t cover the entire object anyway. It was more than identifiable, and Klara pushed back a snicker.

“I made this for you, dear heart,” those warm words like a balm of honey to her ears. He was about to add something like “a pre-engagement party gift!” but held his tongue when he realized the incongruity of his real intention.

Why was it that whenever there was high emotion around him, thought Klara, that her Godfather always ran hot and cold like this? He flipped over an empty wooden crate sitting nearby to use as a table for his gift and sat on the floor, cross legged like a young lad. With a dramatic flourish, the silken cloth was removed, the switch turned on and Klara grinned happily as the animals in the charming farm scene moved left and right in their pen, twirling as their feet lifted up and down in unison to the twinkling tune.

“And what is this,” she intoned with gracious laughter in her voice, “How beautiful! I love it!” Her eyes followed the little animals with delight as she perched her chin on her hands, her ruby ring catching the afternoon light and casting a red reflection on the wall opposite.

“It’s one of my favorite melodies. ‘Five Sheep, Four Goats’. It’s Dutch, you see. From the North. My uncle used to play it on the fiddle when he visited. I loved him; he was a jolly fellow, nothing like my father...his brother.” Drosselmeyer’s fine face began to fall now, very slowly. She didn’t see this.

The music stopped, but he wound it again – he could not bear any silence between them just now.

“I always…well, I guess I always thought of him and his kindness when I heard this before but…now…I suppose…it would be such a thing to dance with you to this…if…if I could dance, that is.” His voice was nearly a whisper now; of course he knew he could not dance well. _It was only another item to add to the list of things he could not do for her_ , he thought. _Can’t dance, can’t earn enough, can’t keep time, can’t…_

“Of course, Pieter,” she intoned with love. “At our wedding, you’ll be sure.”

Silence. _Something is wrong_, she thought. Perhaps he’s bothered because of the dancing bit. Best to focus on something else.

“And what is the occasion for these sheep and goats, may I ask? Are we to buy a farm?"

His face was blank. Alright, that's not it...

"Or is this simply a gift for the sake of gifting?” She spoke quietly, almost reverently so as not to speak over the music, which she found comforting like a lullaby.

“Oh…well…it’s a…oh, piece of me… to uh…”

A long pause. The music was catchy and Klara was nodding her head to the down beat.

“...to take…”

Klara, blinking, focused her face on his.

He was chuckling a bit. “Well, uh…heh! To take with you, I mean, to keep – “

"To what?"

"To take with you..."

In a swoop of action, she rose to her feet involuntarily out of some startled emotion that she had difficulty identifying. She suddenly felt very heavy in her limbs.

“What do you mean? Am I going somewhere?”

“N…No.”

“Are you, then, Sir?”

_‘Sir’? It’s ‘Sir’ now?_

“It…no, Klara, I– “

“Then what are you talking about, Godfather? Why do I need a piece of you?”

(A tired sigh): “Look, Klara – there. Because of that. Well, more than that but…you continue to address me as a…family relative and –“

In that millisecond, Klara perceived what she had done to cause discomfort and in her fear of what may be coming next, cut him off.

“And so you are!! Well, have been for so long...are you…are you being silly and calling off our engagement or something because of my little mistake? Oh pooh!” With this she began to smile like anything, which he found terribly confusing. Oh no. Now she was giggling. How was any of this funny?

“I didn’t say that…well, I…” He couldn’t concentrate watching her, as her pert figure was quite to his optical advantage at this angle, even if it was with only one eye; he was losing his will power and his voice.

“I shall remember to call you Pieter as you wish…” and to his surprise, she gathered her skirts to more comfortably sit and curled up next to him on the wooden floor. As she grabbed hold of his arm, he curled his strong fingers into her hands, fighting back the urge to kiss her into silence, but this was not the time as she began to ramble on increasing speed. “I’m very sorry, Pieter. I’m still so new to this. It’s only been three days, you know! And Maman is all fine and dandy with us now, too. We talked ever so long this morning and then she got your letter and came back with a much different attitude after I praised you to all high Heaven – oh! Pieter, don’t be bashful now! Don’t turn your head away like that! I spoke of your character, you know. Truly, I did. Telling her how good you were and how you could be trusted and…well, we talked about all sorts of things, really. Oh! It makes me blush…about our children and how…”

 _No. Not that._ She had barely skimmed the surface of it, but it was too much.

 “Klara…stop, please. We…we must speak about this. And it’s about more than what you call me.” And he rose up, quite quickly and with a familiar nervous energy. He stood by the window overlooking the street below, gazing above the valleys of rooftops in Lenzen. The sun was high, bright and optimistic – and there stood Herr Drosselmeyer, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands resting on his lower back – scowling in its light.

“I’ve been thinking, and I’m plagued with worry, you see. So much about me that’s unsuited for a life with a…with a lady such as yourself. I am older, for one thing. I know I have strange ways. And, well I was so happy the other night – at your parents’ I mean, when I gave you the ring and…well, I meant, Klarissa” turning back to her “everything I said that evening. We had been growing so close to one another in the last year; think about it. You are so dear to me, but” and here he took a deep breath, trying to look calm by crossing his arms, “there is much you…do not…know…about me, my love.”

“Like what?” Her question was so plain and came so quickly, it caught him off guard. Her face was stony, and he thought she may be shivering. He thought she had said she was warm…

“Just…things. My – my profession. My life before you were in it, when I was in Berlin, I mean, and”  – he was shaking his head – “uh…just…”

“Is this about how you lost your eye? Because I told Maman about what you told me the other night and she didn’t believe me, for some reason.”

The downstairs door suddenly slammed shut, supposedly on its own. Neither of them had heard it open.

Klara leaped up in fearful confusion and Pieter stood there as before as Rolf the coachman came thundering heavy-booted up the narrow stairs, seemingly making his presence known by stomping one stair at a time.

He cast a hostile glance at Pieter before turning to his passenger.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Klara, but it grows late and your parents will want you home for dinner. Please do come if you will.”

 _Nosy moron –_ was the first vile thing that Klara mentally screamed out in disgust before silently doing as she was told.

~~

Sitting at his desk now that he had seen her drive off back home ( _and best to do so now anyway_ , he thought, _as it was beginning to cloud slightly, thus snow was afoot_ ), he could rest easy. The hard part was over – for now. But the emotion of the last fifteen minutes had drained him in a way that being with Klara never really did. He stared into the hourglass in front of him, next to the memento mori skull – “remember death” –  that had scared poor Fritz to bits the first time he had visited with Klara as a child. All men of substance and education had one of each; it practically came with the diploma: one skull, one hourglass, one university degree. Reminders of the inevitable – of the comically truncated duration of life, at least when one really thought about it. 60-70 years or maybe slightly more. He was 42 – what, twenty more years or so left? If only it were so easy to turn it over and let the sand fall the other way.

He'd give anything to erase everything that had happened years before – and turn over the hourglass once again, so he would have more time to correct his mistakes, each grain of sand falling away like bits of dirt and muddy rain and scars, and moonless nights and crusted blood, crusting up and falling off like scabs, revealing new skin, new life. Although in some ways the past was already dealt with, he hadn’t been unscathed by it. It had left him with a tattered reputation that thankfully he had repaired little by little over the years in Lenzen, associating himself with a good family, ridding himself of who and what he once was. It had not cured him of his ability to love – that was obvious.

It had left him with one less eye.

But worst of all these things, that lack of an eye had to be accounted for. And now he was beginning to suspect the girl didn’t believe what he had told her – a carving tool falling onto his face when he was a young boy in his father’s shop, something that could have easily have taken place, but graciously, it did not.

Madeline knew the truth. He hadn’t had time to finish panicking as they were interrupted by Nosy Rolf, but he nearly keeled over when she mentioned her mother’s incredulity. He marveled that Frau Stahlbaum had the courage to write him at all. She hadn’t been so shy as him; she sent _her_ letter over by messenger directly. He had ripped open her response very carefully just an hour before Klara arrived, as if placing too many tears in the paper was an offense. Frau Stahlbaum's tender, yet subtly admonishing words brought relief, but barely.

Hence the honest conversation he had just held with her daughter...

When he opened his eyes again, for they had closed, it had grown dark.

 _6:47. Too late to send a note now._ And he felt his way to light a candle and get back to gathering wood…but not before hastily turning around and gobbling up the greasy cold ham she had left him.

_Even freaks must eat..._

 

~~

Alone in her room after successfully avoiding dinner (and narrowly avoiding the needling inquiries of Fritz – older now at seventeen and a bit soberer of temperament, but with intellect comes prurience in teenage brothers), there sat Klara, bundled on the floor by the window in her thick winter shawl as a new flurry of snow fell outside; cradling the Nutcracker she had dug out of her closet, still all bright red and black-eyed, with her ink stained fingers; various first, second, third and fourth drafts of letters to her Godfather strewn about. She had little courage to send them, as every note sounded more histrionic and whining than the last.

Before she could protest one utterance to the coachman’s strange insistence on leaving, her Godfather had practically pushed her down the stairs, one hand on her shoulder, the other grasping her hand. She felt the welcome warmth of Pieter’s breath on her chilled neck as he whispered: “We shall speak later.” But when was this to occur? She had hoped he would send a note this evening or come over himself to explain. He did neither. Simple silence. She had considered asking her father for permission to pay a visit once more, but a young woman visiting any man after dark, let alone her fiancé was, she knew, out of the question for propriety’s sake. Maman would probably faint or worse.

_Why had he flinched so when I mentioned our future children? He’s certainly not too old for that. Is he calling this engagement off? Is this just conjecturing? Am I simply imagining this?_

_“My profession…Berlin…my life before you were in it…”_

Left to wallow in these unanswered questions that simply produced more, finding herself deeply offended at his reluctance to share himself with her and his emotional reticence, coupled with her parents’ strange reactions to the news of this engagement and their enigmatic airs – what else was there to do but weep? No one seemed to be taking this event seriously but her. Of course Fritz had made comments when the news broke:

_“Klara’s lost her mind – I guess no one else will have her – so she turns to family relatives!”_

_“Sick nurse in training! ‘Here, Krankenschwester, come empty this chamber bowl! I must have my cocoa! I say, Klara, come walk me to the bedroom for a cuddle, lass.’”_

_“You just read too much fluff stuff, Käse Gesicht…Mama’s right.”_

Maybe she did. Maybe that was the problem and she had possibly dreamed all of this up herself.

_Shut up. You did not. He said you two would talk later. So just wait. Perhaps he’ll call tomorrow in the morning…_

But morning was yet a far way off. She needed an answer. Now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty! There you are! I will be updating the Pinterest page shortly after posting this and will work on the YouTube channel as well...
> 
> For those of you who are familiar with Sendak's Nutcracker, I hope you notice the many visual clues I'm adding in from the film, especially the scenes from the very beginning of the film, showing Drosselmeyer's toy shop. I'll update the Pinterest page when I have some free time and you'll see what I mean. 8) 
> 
> Next time -- a flashback to Pieter's proposal and a very, very weird conversation between Klara and her parents. This time, there's no holding back. Isn't there?  
> But will an unexpected visitor put all things right once again?


	11. Blood Pfeffernüsse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally back! My apologies for the time (now over a month?) between postings, for anyone following out there. Busy June and July! I'm going to post a shorter chapter and have Chapter 12 a short one as well, as I'm currently streamlining the 12th.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Fritz…Fritz!” Klara whispered in a rather loud hiss, knocking on her brother’s door, just down the hall from her own. She was wrapped up in her coat and muff, ready to leave – again.

After much more knocking, though she really tried to keep her voice and her knocking to a minimum noise level, he finally emerged: vest undone, clutching a copy of Goethe. She had obviously interrupted his reading – although she was rather surprised at the decidedly deep reading he was doing for an idiot 17-year-old brother.

“You need to either knock harder to speak louder, Käse-Gesicht. I could barely hear you to begin with…”

“Shut up, Fritz, listen: I need your help. I have to see Fr. Schreiber and I’m not sure how to tell Papi or Maman and – ”

“Whoa! Slow down, then...now, have you forgotten how to ask questions, you mean? Just copy what I did just now. Did you notice the rising intonation on the end of that sentence? And that one? And this? That was a question.”

She took a deep breath. “No…Fritz…you don’t understand. I need to go visit Fr. Schreiber. I have something important I need to ask him, but I don’t want Maman or Papi to suspect anything; not at this late hour, anyway. I’ve already skipped dinner and they...“

“It’s only 6:30, moron.”

“That doesn’t matter! And stop with the names. I’m not sure if they would think anything amiss if I slipped out again. But I need an alibi – “

“Ah,” he interrupted. “Well, that’s easy: you just say,” (and here he turned falsetto, clasping his hands in dramatic supplication): “Maman! Papi! I must visit Fr. Schreiber! Pray, I must go!”

“FRITZ!” Now her patience was wearing thin and her whispers were becoming half-shouts; she would have laughed if she weren’t upset already. “For the love of God, let me finish…”

(In his normal voice): “Look, what is it, really, Käse-Gesicht? Why do you need an alibi?”

“Because…I…I don’t want them to think anything strange or scandalous. You know how Maman is. They may think something awful.”

He stared at her with half-closed eyes. “I doubt it. You, doing something awful? What, did you forget to pray this morning or did Herr Drosselmeyer touch you for too long on the shoulder again? We all know what happened the last time you felt funny about that!” 

Despite knowing he was only teasing, it was too much for her to hear and she closed her eyes in dismay, but on he went...

“Him running out like that after you were so rude just because he gave you a wooden doll and then you were all tears and ‘forgive me’s’ when he came for tea the next day, remember? And then he made you laugh, like nothing happened! You two, I swear…”

“Please…stop…” she began crying, quietly but copiously. She covered her face with her hands as her muff fell to the floor. “It’s not like that…please...”

A short pause…

“Klara…?” The odd hint of caring in his voice shook her awake and peeked through her fingers. He was holding out a handkerchief to her. His expression of droll amusement had now softened to curious concern.

“Alright, now tell me,” he asked as he retrieved her muff and handed it to her, “why do you need to talk to a pastor? What’s happened?”

Dabbing at her eyes, she steadied her breathing again and became quite serious again, if not inwardly taken aback at her brother’s own sudden soberness. “I need to ask him about Pieter. Fritz, something’s wrong. He’s being peculiar about us getting married which was nothing like when he proposed at the party and please! No insults. Just listen: Schreiber has known Pieter for some time. I can’t sit here cooped up without having an answer to the million questions I have in my head; I'll go crazy. I need to get out of this house and if I can't go to Pieter's, I need to talk to someone. Papi is especially playing dumb and it’s too late to write Pieter now. I need someone to talk to – ”

“You’re talking to me now.”

She shot him a glare of annoyance, but nearly smiled. “Yes, but someone older. And wiser.”

He rolled his eyes. “Alwaaaaysss the older ones! Right then, what do you want me to do already?”

She spoke hesitantly, expecting a "no": “Walk into town with me to St. Katherine’s? Please! Tell them we’re visiting Elsie. Or Heinrich?”

He scrunched his face up. “You!? Paying a call on Heinrich with _me_? He’s fifteen! And what am I suppose to do while you see Fr. Schreiber?”

She slipped her hand into her muff and held out several marks she had saved. “Here. Buy as many pfeffernüsse as you like!”

He was straight-faced.

“Blood money. Blood pfeffernüsse...”

“Ohhh, just take it! No blood involved or spilled, not even yours. I just need an easy conscience, and no one here can help me. Except you, of course, if you please just come with me.”

Her brother snatched the money playfully, winked and smiled – the kind of smile she hadn’t seen in a while. It denoted trust, goodwill and, dare she even think it…kindness.

“We never spoke, Käse-Gesicht! I’ll just get my coat…”

 

**December 24 th, 1884.**

A party thrown by the same family on the same day of the same month each year may thought to be, by those attending, a mixture of comfort, familiarity and then, once that sensation has worn off, sheer boredom and duty. The decorations, always plentiful, never really changed. The food and wine Frau Madeline Stahlbaum served each December never wavered in terms of the menu: plentiful desserts that filled the air of their spacious home with the smell of plums, apples, warm pastry and cinnamon, every year without fail; plenty of beef and as she was French and this was a Northern river town, a fish terrine could always be counted on; as could the Lenzen string quartet to play Christmas tunes and dances. For the last several years, the Stahlbaum’s children’s Godfather had provided toys for all the children; this continued as well. The family’s furnishings generally stayed the same, as did their dress, though the wife and daughter gleamed with imported designer French silks that altered from year to year. Always the same guests, usually the same servants, the same script (arrive, eat, dance, light the Tannebaum; eat; listen to a piano or singing or flute recital from a special guest; dance the last few grand tunes; nick one last lebkuchen or springerle; say good night), the exact same charms and entertainments.

Yet, for a small town such as Lenzen, local folk welcomed this Christmas Eve tradition and would have thought it passing strange for anything else to take its place and no one wanted that to happen. For in the last few years, it had shifted from a gathering for only a small clique of more well-to-do, to a night that brought together the aloof banker with the prying shopkeeper, the gruff fisherman with the refined doctor and no one thought too keenly on each individual’s place on the chess board of life. As time went on, their Christmas Eve ball became a town tradition, not simply a private gathering. All were welcome at the Stahlbaum’s in their finest. Thus, this Christmas Eve ball of 1884 bore every resemblance to that of 1879, the first year that Herr Drosselmeyer arrived dressed in a strange costume and acted even weirder with their young daughter. The only difference was the mixture of attendants, and the children had now grown, and the parents seemed to have grown even older…

…and strange toymaker Drosselmeyer, that secret admirer of Klara Stahlbaum, had arrived dressed as a Scottish Stuart Bonnie Prince Charlie – kilt, familiar white wig and all.

~~

Klara knew he would be late; he always was. But it was getting close to 9pm and aside from that awkward, yet memorable Christmas Eve of five years ago, he had never been _this_ late since then. There wasn’t as much snow this December, but still enough to slow anyone down who was walking.

Since recently turning twenty-one that October, she and her Godfather had been spending ever so much more time together than normal – even for them. There wasn't a spoken reason for this; an outside observer would say that it was happening by osmosis and her twenty-first birthday set it in swift motion. Drosselmeyer was a frequent visitor to the house, that much was certain – her father had commented several years ago, albeit with the warmest of feeling, that her Godfather practically lived there – but especially after the incident with the nutcracker, despite the miscommunication and hurt feelings on both sides that came about by it, Klara and her Godfather grew ever closer, as if an invisible wall had come crashing down around them like thick, shattered ice. Granted, he still behaved strangely when she was not acting or being receptive in the precise way he had wished, while she in turn found herself drawn to him naturally, little by little with each passing year. But such comfort still did nothing to keep her from being frightened by her own feelings. Still – the emotional bond formed in childhood between them was beginning to feel less like that of a parent and child, and far more like two friends - who just happened to always be on the same side against the world.

Now Klara had been making the rounds as her mother had taught her since she came of age, chatting amiably with their guests, only sipping her champagne moderately, dressed in a gorgeous concoction of dark aqua-blue lace and satin, the neckline rather low though she took care of that with a gauzy scarf. More than a few of her brother’s gentlemen friends had commented on her looks that evening to each other in whispers; they were decidedly beyond plotting to steal a nutcracker toy. Their minds were elsewhere. The Commissioner himself had congratulated her mother on the “brilliancy” of her daughter’s presence and how much she had matured in the last five or so years. “Something to say for your French schooling, Madeline,” he had quipped cheerily.

She had indeed matured – the nervousness around crowds had lessened a bit, though she still found these events tiring and sought solace in her friend Elsie, who was recently engaged to an accountant from Havelberg. While the fiance was boring, the news was not. The two of them were tucked into a corner of the ballroom, admiring the girl’s sparkling ring, when her mother rushed up to the two of them, a highly bemused open-mouthed smile curling her lips. Decked in an olive-green gown and peppy after her own glasses of champagne, she could have easily passed for someone much younger than her advanced years. She spoke conspiratorially, youthfully and with barely-concealed glee:

“Girls, our own Herr Drosselmeyer has done it again! Wait til you see…”

Klara’s heart jumped at the first few syllables of his name and she suddenly felt a slight sting of anger at his late arrival.

“What took him so long?” She began to rise from her chair and follow her mother. But before her mother could answer, he took over as he literally jumped into their presence:

“My bonny Klara! Or ‘ _lassy_ ’ as they say in Caledonia!” and he bowed with a dramatic flourish and waving of arms.

There stood her Godfather in a Scottish tartan kilt, a blue silk jacket, cravat, a tri-corner hat and naturally, his white wig.  He looked every inch the 17th century Scottish prince and with his eye patch, could have been a soldier just come back from some bloody skirmish with the English.

Laughing, she bowed in return. No longer surprised by anything he did, these theatrical antics now turned her heart into butterflies. Elsie simply stood there in silent, mild shock, still never warming to the older man’s eccentricities:

"Where in the world did he find _that_?" or something to that effect, was supposedly muttered.

Klara’s mother stood with hands clasped before her, grinning like anything, seemingly enjoying his presentation as she glanced from one face to the other. She did not seem the least bit fazed by her daughter’s delighted giggling, nor her manner of reaching for Drosselmeyer’s hands to clasp them – what was there to fear? He made Klara happy - that was worth any strange glances his costume may inspire by their guests.

~~

The toys had been distributed, the three fish terrines made for the evening were long gone and the room’s occupants had begun to thin a little as the evening was coming to a close. Klara had just walked back into the ballroom after graciously showing a guest to the door (she could never later recall who it was) when her Godfather raised his hand to her hesitatingly from across the room; he was standing behind the Tannenbaum (there was just enough room behind it to hold two people standing upright), holding a small box in his right hand. An odd sight, really, to see Bonnie Prince Charlie in full regalia waving to you from across the room in the shade of a Christmas tree…

She raised her hand to him in return and quickened her pace to join him.

“You know, you still have not told me why you were late,” she chided in the familiar way they had with one another as she came to a stop. She tried to keep her demure composure and yet wanted to stand as close to him as possible – to snuggle her body into his arm, lay her head on that perfect space between shoulder and chest and inhale that familiar faint scent of paint, musky wood and his own essence – just as she did when she was a child; feel his arms wound tightly around her. It was a feeling she had not yet experienced with him as a true adult, but she dreamed of it – and often.

Now that familiar deep-set blue eye smiled at her in return. As if sensing what she was thinking, he took a step closer to her, grazing the material of his clothing to her dress, intently focused on her face and yet scanning the room when he could, as if wanting to see if there was anyone watching; nervous yet bold.

The string quartet had begun playing “Silent Night”; that she later remembered clearly.

“I had something to make for you – it needed to be perfect.” His voice was distant, far off as he fiddled with the box in his hands.

“Ahh, for me!” She looked down to the square red box, which he now placed into hers. “Thank you, Godfa-“

Without warning in a rush of movement, he had now moved very close to her, placing his hands on her back and she was caught off guard. There he was - there was that familiar blue eye, that hooked nose, that sweet face, those lips and bushy eyebrows - all inches away from her own face. They had stood close together thousands of times, but he looked different now. The rush of heat from her heart to her cheeks gradually increased as she realized that, despite the room being nearly empty, there were still a few people in the ballroom beyond and this situation was highly unusual. He had his hands on her and they were behind a Christmas tree of all things. _It would have been worse if it were a nativity scene,_ is what she kept repeating to herself afterwards. She didn’t want anyone to talk - there was too much of that in the past already. She was tempted to turn her head to see if anyone was spying on them, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him. She was too scared.

“I have something important I need to ask you, Klarissa.”

His tone was grave in a manner that was foreign to her memory. Whatever this something was, it was not to be taken lightly. He was also calling her by her family’s pet name for her. Gradually, the room seemed to be growing darker as a haze settled over everything except the two of them. She felt a warm light around them that was barely imperceptible, but she could have sworn it was there.

Time, somehow, had stopped.

“What?” Her own voice was thin, reedy.

He moved his hands from her back to her own hands before her.

“Do you know?”

“Um…I…no, I really don’t.” _You stupid fool – is that all you can say to him?_   Yet, what else was she to say? Her mind became blank.

“Please open it.”

She did, though she was truly ignorant of what she would find. Inside was a gold ring with one very large ruby.

“We can’t have Elsie outdo you, you see.” She looked at him when he said this. His grin was cautious, his eye darted over her face, searching for her reaction.

"I made it," he continued. He didn't take his eye off hers. "It's glass, mind, not a ruby. I can't afford a ruby right now - but...but if I could, I'd give you every ruby, every diamond in the world...my Klara..."

She froze as the understanding melted into her bones. An intake of breath. Her hand rose to her mouth. He took the ring and placed it on her fourth finger, left hand.

_This can't be happening._

She began to hear others in the room singing along with the quartet.

_Stille Nacht, Heil'ge Nacht..  
Gottes Sohn, o wie lacht…_

“Will…will you…m-marry me, Klara Marie?”

Now her own hands were shaking nearly uncontrollably. Her vision was obfuscated, and it was some time before she realized that her eyes were cloudy with moisture – it was threatening to roll down her cheek bones.

_Lieb' aus deinem göttlichen Mund,_

_Da uns schlägt die rettende Stund'…_

She said nothing. She stared at him.

“You are dear to me, Klara, love. You’ll never understand why or how. I saw you as a child and I knew then, but…” (He looked down in sadness) “I can’t explain it now…” He sighed and his lip began quivering. “Will you be my wife? Please, Klara, let me care for you and protect you. We are already so fond of one another…”

She finally gained her voice.

“Oh, Pieter,” and surprised herself at calling him by his name. She cast her glance to her hand.

“So _this_ is why you wanted to measure my finger last month!” And they both burst out laughing. “That ridiculous story about the Egyptians!”

“Not entirely!” He smiled that strange, toothy smile of his; snorting in his laughter, as if pushing back tears. “They did think it ran straight to the heart…but," and he took her hand close to his mouth, "despite my white lies...I think your heart is larger than your finger.” And he kissed that finger as he cradled her hand in both of his. His eye closed. She couldn’t help that hers did as well. He pressed it to his lips and did not move for many moments. She still held the empty box in her other hand. They stood perfectly still, breathing in sync, or so it felt.

_Stille Nacht, Heil'ge Nacht…_

_Hirten erst kundgemacht_

He opened his eye – that one blue orb, filled with anticipation and sadness, by why she could not make out - and pressed her hand to his heart.

“Will you?” he asked.

_Durch der Engel Alleluja,_

“I’ll make a good husband,” he said, almost like a child trying to apologize for doing something wrong.

_Tönt es laut bei Ferne und Nah…_

_That’s settled,_ said that firm voice in her head she always listened to. _You are now Frau Drosselmeyer, the toy maker’s wife_ …

“Yes, Godfather. Yes...my answer is yes.”

The box fell, their arms wrapped around each other and hugged. She heard his breathing; it was unsteady and gasping. He was crying. She rubbed her hands along his shoulders to calm him, a gesture that she knew, at that moment, would be repeated for many years to come. She knew what was coming next: he moved his head and placed his lips gently on hers, the most innocent kiss of her life. Her first.

_Jesus der Retter ist da,_

_Jesus der Retter ist da!_

The room gave a round of applause for the quartet, while Klara and Pieter calmly slipped away, unseen...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you are! The next chapter will pick right back up and will be posted next week! The Pinterest and YouTube channels should also be updated shortly and I'll update this box when it is. ;-)


	12. A Dirty Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi All!  
> Here is the next chapter! It's short but worth it. 8) Enjoy!

“Now,” said the old man, as he sat back in his chair, “what brings you here, frauleine? You’re quite nervous about something.”

Fr. Schrieber was a gentle man of about 60 – though not so gentle that he did not push his own agenda (or others buttons) when they or it needed pushing: a soft voice that piped along, then bellowed into voluminous theatrics when needed; black eyes that could switch from innocuous and unassuming to sharp and prying within moments; and a conversational style that did not suffer fools, though he may play the part of one at first, if only to throw you off the scent. He was benevolent to be sure, but was not a man to be trifled with. He did not mince words – but what was kept from mincing was always infallibly kind.

A cup of chocolate was in front of Klara, which had been hastily whipped up for her before she sat by the pastor’s fireside, with what felt like ten pillows stuffed behind her back and the pastor’s shepherd dog “Marty” (short for Martin Luther, as he always enjoyed telling his visitors) curled up near her feet. The man was trying to coax her with every comfort he could, given that she had shown up on his doorstep unannounced after the sun had long set and was spurting out only shallow pleasantries until now, giving no particular reason at all for her sudden appearance. And while Klara may have been a nervous child in her youth, he began to see her regressing to that wide-eyed bewilderment once again. Indeed, usually only the desolate or some wayward drifter would dare knock on his door at such an hour. What was wrong with the girl already?

“Please,” he pleaded in a steady, even tone, his benevolent eyes finally steeling into darkness and rapprochement as he studied her face. She had not spoken for some time. “I do not have all evening, Frauleine Stahlbaum.” He was deathly serious.

 “I’m sorry, Fr. Schrieber. Yes, yes you’re right…um…well, it’s like this, you see.”

She took a deep breath, dreading what she was about to say, because she could not gauge how it was to be taken, but she sensed it would not be good.

“I should begin by saying…that…well, I know you haven’t been told yet but…Herr Drosselmeyer and I, as of two days ago, are…en…engaged.”

He showed no reaction. He was as plain-faced and immobile as a statue. Quietly panicking, she continued.

“It’s all quite sudden, really, I suppose and well he asked me on Christmas Eve and – “. She flashed the ring towards him. He did not look down at it and kept his gaze fixed on her face, waiting. Highly annoyed at this rudeness, but keeping composure, she pressed on, eyes fixed on Marty who was blissfully unaware of the drama playing out above him. She petted him, which provided some source of comfort as she babbled on.

“Um…well…anyway, nothing has been announced yet. He only sought permission from my mother and father very recently. We’re thinking of marrying in the spring and then I will be moving to his shop, well, um….I think and well, then we had thought about moving to the North, to Denmark, but there’s the question of money, but I suppose Mother and Father – “

At this point, she took a chance and stole a glance up to find Fr. Schreiber’s expression had changed. He was now looking at her exactly as her mother had this morning when she first broke the news. In a word, he looked as if he were about to burst into tears of shock and dismay – as if she had just seriously asked permission to take her life by throwing herself off the bridge into the Elbe. The only difference was his expression was harder to detect.

“ – and, uh, well, there were some things I wanted to ask you, and –”

“Klara,” he interrupted, his voice solemn. She looked up again.

He spoke very carefully, taking his time and pronouncing each syllable. “Am I correct in saying that Pieter Drosselmeyer has asked you to marry him? The toy carver in town?”

“Yes.”

He squinted. He was silent and thoughtful for a few moments, letting her response sink in. “You mean your parents’ friend, I should say your father’s friend from university? The clock maker as well?”

“Yes…”

“….your Godfather?”

A pause.

 “Yes.”

In Klara’s perception, he only seemed slightly surprised at this. His eyebrows barely raised.

“I see.”

Silence. He took a deep breath. He was just staring at her.

“We’re engaged,” she repeated again stupidly, thanks to her nerves.

“You’re engaged,” he repeated back to her. “To your own Godfather…”

The corner of his mouth began quivering into a smile and with a sigh of relief and a good strong giggle, she smiled back.

“Yes – I – I know it’s unorthodox…”

“But expected,” he said suddenly with a shrug in his voice.

This threw her completely off guard. Her head whipped up to meet his gaze. He jaw fell slightly.

“What – I’m – I’m sorry?”

“I mean that your friendship and closeness has been apparent for some time amongst many people, Klara. He may be an unusual fellow, but that heart of his,” and he looked out beyond Klara, deep in thought. “True and pure; could have been a cleric himself, that one. Hmmm…”

He stroked his chin in deep thought.

“No, I could not wish a better husband for you if you were my own daughter. The fact that you and Pieter are marrying?” He leaned forward, the orange glow of the fire illuminating his languid face and coal black eyes. “It’s not a surprise, my girl. I understand you must be embarrassed, and while some may think my approval scandalous, well,” and at this he sighed and gently slapped the arm of his chair; a barely visible cloud of dust scattered. He seemed to be answering every question and feeling she had without having to open her lips.

“Well – I have seen my share of – of unions squelched out by injustices. I understand how one can suffer…” He roused himself from his thoughts. “But never mind that now: as for yourself and Pieter, you have my blessing, indeed. Besides, now that you’re no longer a child – you’re what, twenty-one now? – I think something can be arranged on my end to do away any formalities on paper. Not easy, mind you, but it can be done.”

Her apprehension melted. A feeling of confidence shot up her spine. “Oh well, thank you ever so much, Sir, truly! But to be honest I really had something else I wanted to speak to you about, only because I know you know Pieter so well.”

She didn’t hold back. Within moments, her heart relaxed enough to let down her guard. She explained everything in as much detail as she saw necessary: Pieter’s sudden change of heart, or her perception of it, his words about his former occupation and his cold feet about their marrying and the odd reaction of her parents. It was her mention of Berlin that caused Fr. Schreiber to draw back his scowl into a look of knowing resignation.

“Well,” he said, “as far as this talk of Berlin goes, I think I can erase a little mystery there. Your Godfather – or, I beg your pardon, now your intended – had a hard time of it after he left university, you know. I’m not entirely clear on why, but something was amiss after he left. Personally, I think it was his old eye injury that kept him from doing as well as he wanted to; bright man, you know – so bright, but his sight limited him from doing the intricate work he wanted, so he ended up going to Berlin, where there was more work to found.”

Klara looked puzzled.

Schreiber tilted his head and seemed to be trying his best to understand what was going on here.

“I’m not sure what you know or what your parents have told you,” he said. “You know he was a rat catcher? A dirty business, but not dishonorable if the catching’s honest. That was all he could find work for at the time, though I think he did other things. He has a soft-spot for animals, as you know, even wretched ones. Perhaps he didn’t want you to know?”

 “So…” she shook her head; there must be something she wasn’t understanding. What could the old profession of a rat catcher have to do with not wanting to marry her? “I’m sorry. You’re saying that Pieter was a rat catcher – in Berlin? Not a clock maker? That’s the profession he was ashamed of, as you put it?”

He shrugged his shoulders again and blinked in surprise. “Well – I don’t know about ashamed.” He cocked his head at her again. “I don’t see what’s so strange about that either; that is, it’s not the most glamorous job, but he had to support himself and he could work at night. Ha, I remember he and I talking things over here once just after he came to town; you were just a girl and he talked a great deal your parents and brother and how much he loved your home…and you.” A shot of warmth to her heart again. She nodded and smiled.

“He wanted to talk theology and science, you know. But I do recall him telling me that he wanted to avoid working during the day when he was a rat catcher, but he didn’t say why; I suspected at the time it was because he was worried about his eyepatch being so visible, but it may have been for another reason. I really think he just enjoys the night life. Heh, he is a night owl, that is for certain! Heheh!”

~~

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Surely a profession someone had held many years ago, after leaving university, should have no impact on one’s future – especially when it didn’t involve one’s income in the present. This couldn’t be the real problem – not in the slightest. This did not make sense. Klara wasn’t an employer asking for references – she was his fiancé. She was practically family before as a Goddaughter and even more so now as a future wife. Why would he think it embarrassing to be a rat catcher, especially to her? Why hide something like this? They had shared so much of themselves with each other, in her mind. It cut her deeply, to think of him keeping something so trivial from her, someone she thought was the only one true friend she had ever had, and it was true – he was. First a friend, now her soulmate for life. If she were presented with the most attractive, well-bred, moneyed, intelligent, witty and gallant young men in Germany, they would not be her Godfather, the one man who knew her inside and out as only family could. She had rarely hidden anything from him and she expected the same in return. It seemed a very odd thing to keep veiled from her and surely not enough to keep them from marrying. It was almost laughable.

But then, this was the famous Herr Drosselmeyer that was being discussed here – a man eccentric enough to wear a wig when he had his own hair and liked dressing up in costumes on a day-to-day basis; a grown man who so bashful at times that he could barely look people in the eye and (God forgive her, it was true – exhibit A: Christmas Eve 1879) acted like a clinically insane man-child when he didn’t get his way and preferred the company of youngsters to adults.

Nothing was normal about Pieter Drosselmeyer. But perhaps, just perhaps, this was all there was to it. He thought a “lady such as herself,” as he had said, would be turned off by knowing he wasn’t always a successful clock maker.

 _Enough of this utter nonsense_ , she thought as she stopped by their friend Heinrich’s door step to collect her brother, his hands and corners of his mouth sticky with powdered pfeffünsse sugar. _I’ll ask him myself tomorrow._

~~

“So - how did it go?” Fritz prodded her along as they walked back home. “And slow down, will you? What did he say? Am I allowed to ask, sister dear?” He nudged her in a teasing fashion. “Really, slow down, Käse-Gesicht, you’re going to fall – “

She wasn’t in a playful mood, but did she ever feel determined. Trepidation, excitement and confusion were propelling her feet down the cold, quiet main street of town. “I’m not entirely sure yet, but I suppose it could be worse and bedsides, I’m rushing because I need to write a letter. Or write things down so I can get my head in order.”

“Your head is always out of order.”

“Shut up. Fr. Schreiber told me that…of all things! Listen to this: Pieter was a rat catcher when he was young! In Berlin!”

“It…what?”

“He caught rats, Fritz!”

“I know what a rat catcher is, moron!”

“I’m quite serious! In Berlin, he caught rats for a living for a while. Pieter had told me he didn’t think he could marry me because of the profession he held long ago, but he didn’t say what. I just found out, you see? And none of this makes sense, doesn’t it? Why would that keep him from marrying me? What do I care about what he did so long ago?”

“Because he’s afraid the mice might eat your cheesy face?”

“Shut up. No wonder he made that horrendous rat puppet for you that time, remember? And now I understand why he’s so loving with the mice that live in his rooms. I mean, he must be used to them! I wish he had told me all of this before.”

Fritz said nothing. But out of the corner of her eye, she could see that her brother’s own mind-wheels were turning along and coming up short.

“I think there’s something else, Fritz. There must be. Maybe that’s why Maman and Papi act so strange. There must be something else…”

“Alright, wait a minute here. He told you he wouldn’t marry you because he had caught nasty rodents when he was our age?”

Her brother finally broke her down and she burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. Her brother joined in. The inexplicable nature of the situation only underlined the ludicrousness of it all.

“How does that factor in with your impending marriage, Klara? I mean, really! Something seems amiss, I’d say…”

“Well, yes, but the question is, what do I do? Come now, let’s not joke.”

Unusually, Fritz fell silent a while.

“Ask Mutter and Papi. They’ll know. Trust me, I think our parents know more than they let on about your decrepit fiancé.”

“Shut up.”

__

Klara wasted no time.

Later that night, as the house became silent at bedtime, she rapped softly and respectfully on her parents’ door. Her mother bid her enter, but once she did, she saw that her mother bore a skeptical expression as she caught sight of Klara in the reflection of the mirror at her dressing table. Clothed in a nightgown and shawl as she braided her long hair for bed, she hadn’t a moment to say anything. But she knew Klara had something serious to say.

“Maman, I’m sorry to disturb you. I must ask the both of you something,” and she nodded to her father, nightcap on his head, propped in bed, reading. He regarded her a moment over his glasses, glanced at his wife and seemed to sink lower under the covers and it looked like the book was nearly covering his head.

“I need to ask you – and I am sorry for being so bold – but please tell me why you did not tell me about Pieter being a rat catcher. You see, please don’t be angry with me, but I paid a visit to Fr. Schreiber  – ”

“God preserve us,” mumbled her father.

“ – And, well, he said he knew about Pieter being a rat catcher. So I thought you would be able to tell me: this is true, isn’t it?”

(Her mother): “Well…is this really the time, Klarissa, dear? We can talk in the morn-“

“ _Oh for God’s sake, Maddie_!” Her father was near livid and threw his book down. His wife and daughter momentarily shook back in open-mouthed shock. “Just tell the girl – enough with these secrets. Tell the girl what she’s wanting to know.” He was adamant.

“Albert!”, her mother shrieked a whisper at him.

“Klara yes, he was,” said her father as he took off his glasses and massaged his eyes in what seemed to be relief mixed with exhaustion. Klara heard her mother take a deep intake of breath. “He caught rats for a living as a young lad; it’s not the most elegant profession, but honest. You know his eye malady. It kept him from working for – uh – some time.” Her mother, looking anxious, turned her head away with pursed lips. She was squinting her eyes as though she were in pain.

Carefully, Klara proceeded. “And…that’s all? _That_ was the big secret? Maman? Is that what you were referring to this morning when you said you knew something about him? I’m-I’m sorry, but I really must know.”

She couldn’t see her mother’s face, but her mother was doing some kind of deep breathing exercise. Her voice was small. Very small. “Well…”

“YES,” her father answered rather quickly, like a door slammed so hard it was stuck there, never to open again. Her mother didn’t move. “Now you know your mother here – wants the best for her Klarissa and needs to keep up reputations among the townfolk, etc etc. Eh, Maddie?” Her father gestured at her mother with his glasses. He seemed calm enough.

She decided it was best not to let her mother answer. But if this really was all, her heart felt ten times lighter than before.

“Thank you,” said Klara and nodded her head and turned to go. “I’ll say goodnight now. I’m sorry to have troubled you before bed! Oh and Maman? Marta wanted me to tell you there’s no cocoa left for tomorrow’s breakfast, but there’s enough tea to drown in – or at least that’s how she put it…”

“Klara, wait,” her father beckoned her back. “Why did you want to know all of this, exactly? Is anything the matter?”

“Oh, well…it’s very complicated at the moment, I suppose, but,” she said shrugging. “Pieter had said he had reservations about our getting married and it had to do with Berlin. But it’s alright! I’ll look after this, Papi, please don’t fret!” She blew a kiss and was off.

She had closed the door too soon, but if she had lingered a few moments longer, she would have caught sight of her parents exchanging a knowing glance.

~~

December 27th, 1884.

All was well. If this was all, this was nothing. And yes, their romantic situation was not ideal, but if her family’s own pastor said he could approve of it, then nothing stood in their way. Legalities mattered to a degree; their standing in spiritual affairs mattered; the chatterings of neighbors and the practicalities of money, age and home? Those could be overcome, in Klara’s opinion. Anything else was a minor detail. They were to be married and this odd hiccup must simply be chalked up to Pieter’s bashful quality. Klara was tired to death of these mysteries and oddities and wanted the celebrations and good wishes to begin.

It was true there was still so much to learn about her fiancé and there was much she didn’t know. But what she _did_ know was that he was unusual; his mother had died early; he had lost his eye when a knife fell onto his face as he played under his father’s own work bench as child; he had a successful university career but less successful romantic history; and he was brilliant and kind, with a touch she loved and a smile she couldn’t get enough of.

Late that morning, she had just sent a note to Pieter by way of Anna, asking if he would like to drop by for tea in the afternoon. She would have walked over herself, and could have, but the truth was she hadn’t the strength. The morning had passed without a note from him at all and he hadn’t stopped by, as he often did in the middle of the day.  She was holding on to the hope of yesterday afternoon, when he said they would “talk later”. But she had plucked sprigs of lavender from the kitchen and tucked it into the note, which was worded carefully and cheerfully. No doubt he was busy in his shop, as always, and time had slipped past him. She had already asked her parents’ permission for his visit and it had been granted, on the grounds that it would be brief, so that her mother could let their “other guests” of the day drop by – and one of them included Fr. Schreiber, who had sent word by a parishioner that morning that he wished to speak to her parents, but would not say why. Klara, of course, knew the reason and she beamed with the light of pure joy at the thought.

Perhaps a brief amount of time would be enough for she and Pieter to settle things together before meeting again for church on Sunday. There were so many plans to be made and it was time to get going with them.

A knock at her door.

It was Anna, still wrapped up for going out despite coming back in and up the stairs and holding a letter of some kind, looking nearly white as the snow outside.

Klara looked up from her writing desk, where she sat attempting to salvage what was left of the sheets of paper she had used up the night before in her flurry of emotional writing “What is it? Is that from Herr Drosselmeyer?”

Anna was silent.

“Is something wrong, Anna?”

“I’m sorry, Miss…but Herr Drosselmeyer wasn’t at home.”

“Oh dear, he must be out to the market or something. Alright, well, he’ll get my note when he gets back. Is that for me?”

She reached out to take it, but Anna held it back closer to her chest.

“No, Miss. It’s your note – the one you gave me to leave for him.”

Klara was annoyed. “Well, why didn’t you leave it so he could pick it up when he came back?! Why didn’t you leave it?!

Anna held up her hand. “You don’t understand, Miss – he’s gone.”

“What do you mean, ‘gone’? He’ll be back!”

“I mean he’s left Lenzen. His shop was closed up and locked. I looked inside the window and all the toys and clocks and things were gone from downstairs. And there was a note he left on the door.”

Klara felt her arms going numb.

“I’m so sorry, Miss. I'm so sorry. I'm confused as you are. But it said that Herr Drosselmeyer has left town – for good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaannndd...cliffhanger a bit! Yes, something's gone terribly amiss and we'll find out exactly why in the next chapter. This story may end up being slightly shorter than I had originally intended (probably more like 17 chapters, rather than 20), but I'll make up for that in the very last chapter which will be marvelous, trust me. 8) (I've already written it, so I know!) Haha!
> 
> Next time...With Klara at her wits end at Pieter's sudden departure (and a frantic search for where he's gone and why), all hope is nearly lost until important letter arrives - and nothing will ever be the same.


	13. "If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OK! I'm back!! Yes, it's been a while, hasn't it? :-\ My apologies...for anyone out there paying attention to this (and I wonder who's out there?), I will have the Pinterest page updated soon as well. I think I may be wrapping this story up a little earlier than I had planned, so it may be more like 15 chapters instead of 20. ;-) 
> 
> Ok, here we go...

Attention:

Herr Pieter Drosselmeyer’s Shop Closed Indefinitely Until Further Notice

Returns or Repairs (Mechanical Toys/Clocks) To Be Kindly Sent to Schmidt Clockmakers, 39 Lindenstrasse, Potsdam

Outstanding Business Transactions: Please Forward to Fr. Johannes Schrieber of St. Katherine's

~~~

January 9th, 1885

The Stahlbaum Washroom

“Here’s young Fritz’s shirts to be washed, then. Nice to see that boy being more careful with his eating ways; not so many stains now that he’s grown, God help him. Damn, it’s freezing in here. Right, I’m off to pick up the firewood, Gert, so did you want me to get anything in town for you? I can help with that ironing you’re doing when I return.”

“No, I need nothing…oh, but wait just a minute, Marta, I want to talk to you – have you seen Miss Klara today at all?”

“Tsk…well now you know what a feeble question that is! If she’s not in her room, she’s at church, praying like some Catholic. But no, I hadn’t seen her at all…”

“Well, Marta, I wanted to tell you – I overheard the Master and Missus talking at lunch about sending that girl to his cousin’s in Lübeck. Thinks getting out of town will shake her out of this.”

“Phht! She won’t go…”

“Of course she won’t; she thinks he’s coming back. Anna and she are closer than either of us, you know, and Anna told me that Klara told her – “

“Oh, let’s not gossip! We have enough scandal around us already with all of this.”

“We do, don’t we? Bless me – marrying your own Godfather. It isn’t fit, it really isn’t. Unnatural. It’s a wonder they don’t all pick up and retrench to Hamburg; better that than to be whispered about in this small space…”

“You know that sniveling coachman Rolf? I tell you, he won’t even drive past here anymore! The Master still doesn’t know why; I don’t think the Missus has told him yet, which doesn’t surprise me.”

“Well, don’t worry about that. That poor girl, losing her mind as she has. Anna did tell me that she’s already needing those silk dresses of her's cinched in – that’s a wonder, I said! She’s barely eaten a morsel since more than a week ago. Her father threatened the doctor if she didn’t start eating her food properly.”

 “You know I have a right to speak to Fr. Schrieber myself about her, though I know it ain’t proper of me; he must know where he is.”

“But he doesn’t – I already asked Missus. The only thing that scum told Schrieber was that he needed to get away for a while and that he wanted time to ‘think’… _think_! Think about what, after everything this family has done for him?! Poor man begged him to stay, but he wouldn’t listen. But not a soul knows where he is. We thought Potsdam, but Schrieber said that was just where that wretched toy maker… _boy_ -man wanted the toys and such sent, so he wouldn’t have to deal with them; Klara already wrote to the Schmidt fellow, who said he knew no one by that name. Hopefully he’s not covering for that Drossyfire, eh? And _then_ Fr. Schrieber insists he doesn’t know where that deranged fool is. Good man that he is -he’s horribly angry; feels responsible for going to see him that morning – there he is, thinking he was paying a call to congratulate Herr Drozelfire, or whatever his name is, on his engagement and within a few hours, the man has up and left. Missus said he nearly wept in their parlor the other day over all of this – can you believe it? Of all men weeping! Him!”

“Good God, Gert, when a stout fellow like our Schreiber is the one weeping, the world has quite gone mad. No doubt Klara’s beau has gone back home up North. And to think he left no note for Klara at all – what sort of man does that? Just tells the pastor to send word to his fiancé that he loves her and then never speaks to her again.”

“Yes. But…(sigh), well, the girl is young and beautiful. If nothing comes of this, she may still love others again. He was too old for her anyway, in the end. Something like this happened to my cousin’s daughter many years back: the boy broke off their match, but she snagged a butcher’s son in the end! Ha! And here we thought…oh, oh come now, what’s the matter, Marta? Oh come on, no tears now. Here, don’t wet your apron like that, take my handkerchief.”

“I...I’m sorry…but I don’t think our Klara shall find a butcher’s son.”

“Of course not! She’ll do better!”

“No – I’ll no doubt regret saying this if it all comes to naught – but as strange as this sounds, that girl couldn’t do better.”

~~

Klara had begged her father to let her travel to Potsdam.

In her mind, Pieter must be hiding there. She hadn’t come up with any other alternative situation and traveling to Copenhagen was out of the question, with or without her parents or brother. Besides, she was sure he didn’t have any family left up there and therefore saw no reason for his return to the North.

Her father refused her request on the grounds of safety and then the delicacy of her own sanity, and finally went there himself by train to save his own, sending solemn word by telegram that Herr Drosselmeyer was nowhere to be found or seen in town.

She knew he would come back, of course; what other options had he? His family was her own – he had no one else, at least that she knew of. Perhaps he could find prospects elsewhere, it was true. It would make sense if he were attempting to diminish scandal or keep some slanderous talk from bubbling up in town by getting away. Yet, simply up and leaving as he did would only produce more of that kind ofgossip, and so his excuse of needing “time to think” only gave her cause for anxiety, naturally.

Her mother and father had been both attentive and distraught for her, as any parents would be, but they somehow seemed strangely relieved under the surface. They tried to hide their seemingly unnatural calm, but she could detect their approval of Pieter’s absence. She was not a fool and knew that even though her father had initially approved of their match, even _he_ was glad it may now be over.

There was no one to write to - no one she knew of. A brief, tearful interview with Fr. Schreiber the afternoon that Pieter left revealed the following: he had walked over to Hilgermannstrasse the morning after Klara’s visit to St. Katherine’s to offer his congratulations to Pieter in person, all in cheerful good will. Pieter seemed surprised but thanked him and said little else. Two hours later, Pieter came by the church, told him tersely that he was leaving town to “clear his mind” and asked (“Well”, said Fr. Schreiber later on, “it was more like a command than a request,”) that he handle any patrons who may owe Pieter any money. “Tell Klara I do love her,” was the only message he left for his fiancé. Despite Schreiber’s desperate pleadings and questions, Pieter’s only reply was: “I must do this.” He left no forwarding address and did not say where he was going. He was unusually tight-lipped.

_“How did he look...I mean, what was he wearing?” asked Klara abstractedly, as she and Schreiber sat in her parents’ parlor that same afternoon.  
_

_Schreiber found her question unusual, but obliged her._

_“Uh…well, not his wig. Traveling clothes. He had a ragged travel case with him and little else. He must have hired a wagon to take his boxes to the train.”_

_It was later found that the driver who had been hired was, in fact, Rolf – of whom no one on that side of town had seen since._

Startled that morning to such an extent by Pieter's behavior that he temporarily lost his own nerve in the moment, Fr. Schreiber asked another friend of the Stahlbaum’s, who had happened to drop by the church shortly after Pieter left, to go straight to the family home and send word that he needed to speak to Klara’s parents on a private matter.

There had been no talk of anything about Pieter’s time in Berlin, nothing mentioned at all of what Klara had confided to the pastor – and she knew he was telling her the truth.

The guilt she felt, nonetheless, sent her into a dark place she had never been before, as her mind raced in haphazard directions, wondering what Pieter must have thought of her boldness in telling their pastor of the engagement before he gave her any permission. She felt a strange sorrow, as if she had transgressed against a superior authority and had now lost that authority's good opinion, confidence, affection – everything. After all they had been through, she was finding it more difficult than ever to see as an equal or lover the man who had once been her Godfather.

And there was nothing she could do to get it back. Not now. It had been nearly two weeks that he had been gone and, in that time, no one had forwarded repairs to Potsdam or left money for Fr. Schreiber – nothing she could latch on to for a glimmer of hope. She had thought perhaps her nightly dreams - rife with bits and pieces of memories of him - may have led her find him in some way, but that in itself was a childish notion left over from her youth. This was not a fantasy, but reality. There were no mouse kings or sultans or palaces now; no juvenile apprehension of toy presents in boxes or muddled adolescent understanding. The Christmas Eve of her girlhood had been opened, admired and put away, like any other holiday decoration. This was an entirely new uncharted land she was in now and much like that dream of five Christmas Eve nights ago, she had no one to guide her through it.

Besides, her dreams were entirely of her own mind’s making now. She knew distance and misunderstandings would often lead to those dreams, but she never felt him reaching her during the time he had been away. She spent many an hour staring at her ring and digging up that glorious red nutcracker, cradling it in her arms again as a kind of talisman or stuffed toy. It brought back memories of being in the first throes of love as a girl of sixteen - she simply didn't know it then. But she also found doing this gave her a sense of calm and she felt no shame at this childish whim. What more was there to be done? Left helpless, save for the knowledge that he did love her, as he said from his own lips, Klara could do nothing but worry, pray, not eat, and craft letters to him for which she had no address to send.

That is, until many weeks later on a Thursday evening. She had had just returned from praying at St. Katherine’s.

There, lying on the table in the foyer, was a letter addressed to Klara from Berlin. A yelp of emotion barely left her lips as her heart began beating so rapidly she thought she may faint and she tore open the seal and fell to her knees in the middle of the floor as she began to read.

 

                                                                                    _39 Haubachstrass_

_Berlin_

_Jan 15, 1885_

_Morning_

 

_My Most Dearest Klara,_

_My love, I may only imagine what a cad you think me, running off like I did three weeks ago. I hope you will pardon me for my inadequacies, though I suppose that word is weak in face of my true cowardice. Yes, I am a coward and one undeserving of a lady of your merit, but I will not repeat my tired out phrases as before._

_I have been in Berlin, coming back to the scene of a great crime that was committed against me and of a sin that I helped to bring about. Please excuse my not writing until now – you must wonder what happened to me! I could not write before, as I hadn’t a place to stay at first! You know I am not the planning type. I also wanted to gather strength to say to you what I must – and I plan on taking great care in crafting this letter to you. I sought advice, spoke to a chaplain in the city whom I knew would have known nothing about me from twenty years ago and I have spoken with a friend whom I had thought had forgotten me. I had an easy time finding him. And so, you needn’t worry – I am staying with my friend Jörg Bergman, an old schoolmate and fellow engineer I worked alongside at the state railway office. He was astonished to see me! Said I am grown too thin and he insists on feeding three times a day, which I am not used to. He and his good wife and delightful children live in a comfortable home not far from the palace here in Charlottenburg – a fashionable neighborhood, so he told me, but I see nothing different about it other than the streets seem to be better swept than where I was staying before across town, but I am not familiar with these things._

_But I must stop this chatter and tell you what is in my heart._

_I was going to tell you that afternoon you came to the shop, when you told me about your mother approving our engagement, but I lost my nerve. It is not entirely true, dear Klara, what I told you about how I lost my left eye. I did not lose my sight in my boyhood. It is a dark secret, my love. A stain on my character, but no man is a saint – least of all me! You will learn soon enough._

_There is a reason I feel I cannot marry you, though I want nothing more than to do so. The reason is that I do not wish to muddy your own precious life with my own past sin and I feel, ultimately, that you will not wish to have me when you know why - of the past sin I have hidden from you. But as I have been absent these several weeks, thinking and asking God for help, and talking to others who may understand, I have come to the conclusion that you must know, one way or another. My heart, which is entirely yours, is about to break in half as I write to you what you must know, but I am trying to be strong for your sake, Klarissa._

_Enough now. I must tell the truth._

_Do you remember when you asked me, sometime a few months ago, about my past love affairs? You recall I told you she didn’t end up caring for me and found someone else. I would like to explain more._

_You see, I never amounted to anything after I left university, as I was not the brightest student! Never did like sitting still, but I managed somehow. I was skilled in my carving and I practiced this as a hobby at home, but with my degree and honors, I knew I needed work. I took up a post as an engineer for the railway and when there, I met Caroline, the pretty (so I thought at the time – but it was only artifice) niece of my manager. She was the girl who didn’t love me, but I certainly suspected she did then,  finding some ridiculous excuse to be in the drafting room, trying to distract me with her foolish chattering when she should have been leaving me alone to do my work, shaking her mass of dark curls behind her head as she laughed at nothing in particular. Saying things that no proper girl of her station should have ventured to say to a young chap in her uncle’s employment; promises of advancements, gifts and private information I should not have been privy to. I see now, in the small amount of maturity my experience has afforded me, that it was all a game and she, in her own childish ignorance, wanted to use my feelings as dice. Not all women are like you, Klara. All do not have your heart and selflessly give because that is their second nature. Some are only there to take and take and they have no heart to give back what’s given to them. Poor Caroline was one of these. (I call her that now, though any real feeling I have for her has long gone)._

_She knew I was a young fool with no experience and whoever had been her tutor in life had woefully fallen short. We did not even write to one another, or at least rarely. And when she did write, her letters were terribly written. The more I spoke with her, I found that she had little education for a woman of her station. I can smile at this now, but I can honestly say that, due to her writing being so atrocious and her grammar so unthinkably bad, I couldn't bear to read her letters anymore and insisted on speaking to her in person.  
_

_How am I now say what I must tell you?_

_When your parents married, I was still at school; then you came along and when I came to Lenzen to look at you after you were born, I knew – oh, God how I knew – that I must one day have one of my own – a small, warm babe of my own to love and raise. That need to love a little one was instilled, I think, the day I saw you. Or perhaps it was simply knowing, very deep in my soul, that you would one day be mine._

_A child was born, Klara. My child._

_A brief encounter one evening in the railway office resulted in our baby girl. You hate me now, Klara. I know you must hate me, and I fear with everything I am what you must think of me. I told you I was not the kind of man suited for a lady like you._

Here Klara could have sworn she saw traces of water droplets on the paper. She was probably just imagining it. Or perhaps it was her own falling into the page before her.

_I will be blunt: what Caroline did not tell me, before the child was born, was that she had been promised to someone else – an officer in the army. I wondered why she suddenly disappeared for nearly three months and never came to the railway office anymore. I had no idea. I tried to reach her in dreams – my strange talent – and nearly did, but perhaps that is why she was scared of me then. I don’t know. She had sworn she was mine and, in my stupidity, thought she might marry me. Those were dark times for me._

_Somehow or other, her young army officer discovered her condition and she told him who was responsible. She told him I had seduced her. If only he knew her true character.  
_

_I was in my rooms one Saturday afternoon, carving wood._

_Her officer broke down my door with a crash and wrestled me to the ground. I still had the sharp awl in my hand. He struck me several times, but I was no match for his strength to fight back. He informed me, between blows, that Caroline was expecting my child and I would suffer for it.  
_

_He grabbed the awl from my hand and then shouted, as he had me pinned below him,_

_“If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee…” and then began shouting a variety of curses on me, as I suppose the notion was that my eye had caused me to lust after his fiancé._

_The awl came sharp and swift into my eye socket and before I had time to react, I knew that my sight was lost._

_He must have been shocked at what he did, as he didn’t bother to take my other eye out. He must have run out as when I finally came to, I was alone. A neighbor tended to me and took me to hospital, but my memory is clouded over past that._

_I knew with my worsened eye sight that I could not work again. I praised God that I had one eye to work with, but it took getting used to, only seeing with one eye. The railway fired me for immodest conduct - along with other reasons they had for getting rid of me - and I did what I could to get by. I could not go home to Denmark; my parents were dead. I took up work as a rat catcher in Berlin. It was decent enough work that could be done at night, where no one I knew would recognize me and I could stay inside sleeping during the day, though it was not easy. It’s shameful, I know. But I had an affinity of sorts for those poor creatures and I confess I even kept a few as pets in my rooms. You may wonder at how a man such as myself could have stooped "so low" as they say. I simply wanted to get away from the society I had been in before, was all. I hope you will not hold that against me.  
_

_I was too frightened to write to Caroline. It was just as well, for it was not too long after this that I was told by Jörg, the last trusted friend I had at the railway office, that Caroline had died giving birth, rather prematurely. I never knew the child’s name, but I don’t think she was given one. I was tipped off when the funeral would take place and I watched from a discreet distance; no one saw me._

_I did not really weep for Caroline, but for the daughter I never held – the little girl I never met. She lay in the ground here now. I visited her grave yesterday and begged her forgiveness, though she is now no doubt a singing cherub._

_When I found my way to Lenzen, thanks to your father, and saw you, Klara – your little self, prim and pretty and sweet – it was as if she had come back to me, my own little girl, or what I would have imagined her to be. I had found her again, yet all the more special because she was you. We got on so well as time went on, didn’t we? I fell in love with you, in some way or other that I cannot find words for, even then. I have loved you for so long – and now, now that I have had the chance to finally take you as my own, I have dashed away those hopes like the mad, sorry fool I am. For now you know all and am I wretched at the knowledge that as soon as this letter arrives, you will understand what I had hoped you would be ignorant of for all time. But you are my own precious Klara and as I respect you, I cannot hide this thing from you. Not anymore._

_I left Lenzen last month with everything, as I do not see how I can ever come back. I cannot ask you to stay in those cramped quarters as my wife and be victim to gossip. I feel it was all a fantasy.  
_

_But I leave you with this blunt request: if you wish me to come back, I will do so for you. But I cannot stay. Perhaps we can go to Copenhagen after all. I know we will thrive and I so wish to show you my own country! My father may have been German, but it was my Dutch mother whom I loved and taught me everything._

_But if you wish for me to leave you alone, only give me one word and I will obey. I feel too much for you, your parents and brother (ahh, yes even Fritz) than to cause you any more pain than I already have._

_I love you, Klarissa. Send me word but take your time._

_I am,_

_Yours Affectionately,_

_Pieter_

There was only one thing to do.

_4 Trebenstrasse_

_January 22nd, 1885_

_Afternoon_

_Pieter,_

_Please come back at once!! My heart is too full to write more – only come home as soon as you are able. I am more yours now than ever before.  
_

_With Love,_

_Klara_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mystery has finally been solved. :-) Feedback is appreciated! Please leave a comment and let me know what you think, good, bad or anywhere in between! 
> 
> Next time...Klara and Pieter finally come face to face again , with more mysteries finally unraveled - and we have a wedding to attend! <3 <3 <3
> 
> The updated Pinterest Page is here:  
> https://www.pinterest.com/faith_hope_love2014/the-toymakers-wife/

**Author's Note:**

> I plan on breaking this story into small chapters, so more will coming quickly. I'm in the process of writing the latter part of the story while the beginning has already been written, so I'll upload as I go. I'm also creating a Pinterest page for those interested in getting more of a visual feel for the story, so I'll post that once it's completed. I'm a music buff, so look for lots of Scandinavian and classical music references; YouTube links (and a playlist!) will be along shortly as well, so stay tuned!  
> 


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